Loyalty and Betrayal
by TrinityWildcat
Summary: Bobby and Sienna grapple with their new relationship and what happened before. Will they make it through, or will the past wreck the future?
1. Wall of Memories

Author's Notes:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Law and Order: Criminal Intent, and acknowledge the legal rights of those who do. I will make no profit from this story. This is the prologue to "Loyalty and Betrayal", the next chapter in the ongoing Sienna / Bobby saga. It's set in London shortly after the events of "Bulletproof Armour".

You know how I've been saying that everyone will be getting drunk, angry and laid in this fic? Well... the angst starteth here. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

As ever, feedback / reviews most welcome.

Also as ever, gigantic thanks to brynna for beta-ing and moral support!

When he thought, or dreamed, about what had happened in London, he kept seeing the wall of pictures. Remembering the night when he had stood in front of it, seeking some clues as to the events of the past two years of his lover's life in a strange city.

Odd, that. In terms of what had happened, he would have expected to see the wreckage of the City of London stadium roof haunting his thoughts. Or perhaps that hideous second when he had seen the terrorist raise his gun to Sienna, and known, in that same second, that he could not possibly get there in time to save her (although she hadn't needed him to; she had saved herself). Perhaps even the gloomy, dank, MI5 interrogation room where he had come face-to-face with the man he had been hunting, the man who had murdered a young architect and his wife in New York, and thus brought himself and Alex Eames to London. 

_Random chance_, he thought. But then, random chances happened all the time; supposing that another pair of Major Case detectives had been chosen to investigate the murders of Ranjit and Miya Elahi? Supposing that Andrew Davenport had not been assigned to work on the stadium security team?

Supposing, for example, that three years ago, it had been he and not Eames who had busted in the door behind which a panic-stricken gangster's bodyguard was hiding with a baseball bat? If not for that, it could have been she and not he who had been sent on the surveillance operation on the East Coast, in which case the past three years would have unfolded very differently. As it was, she had stayed in New York to recover from the broken arm she had sustained, and he had gone alone to work with Interpol and the CIA.

If someone had told him at the start of that operation that he would meet the woman with whom, he hoped, he would be spending the rest of his life, he would never have believed it in a million years.

Perhaps, he reflected with a grim smile, that same hypothetical person could have done him the favour of mentioning that he was also going to meet the man who would nearly split them apart for good.

That same thought was in large part why, two weeks after the foiled attack on the City of London stadium, he had found himself standing in front of a large wall, covered almost from top to bottom in photographs. They flowed across the expanse of yellow paint in chronological order; the oldest in the top left hand corner, the newest in the bottom right. The images were grouped together by subject; here a small cluster representing a martial arts tournament in Paris, there a larger group for a week's vacation in Spain. Dotted throughout were various random images of the two people who owned the photographs and had created the wall as a sort of photo gallery, depicting the history of the past years of their lives.

The wall belonged to two of Sienna's friends, Tanya and Jack Simmons-McAllister. It was the inner wall of the living room to their house. Since the living room occupied nearly the entire ground floor, and it was a large house, the wall was still nowhere near full, although Goren estimated that the timespan it covered had to represent at least fifteen years. He was tall enough to see the beginning of the photographs at the very top of the wall if he tipped his head back slightly. Private Tanya Simmons, as she had been then, glowered out at him, the scowl and army uniform not hiding the fact that she had been only seventeen, maybe eighteen at most, when the photograph had been taken. Beside her, a image of her husband in cap and gown, university degree in hand, peered at the viewer through his glasses. Though at least four years older, he appeared the more shy of the two, pleasant smile not hiding the uncertainty in his expression.

"Fun to look at, isn't it?"

He turned quickly, although the speaker's Scottish accent had already identified him. Jack McAllister crossed the room to stand beside him, considering the wall himself with a thoughtful expression. (Goren was still somewhat confused as to what surname to use for him, as Tanya and Jack seemed to sometimes go by their joint surname and sometimes by their original names. Tanya's explanation hadn't exactly cleared things up: "Well, basically when we're working we use our original surnames, when we want a good table in a restaurant we use our joint name and Jack's title, and the kids can just have whatever name they like best".)

Now nearly fifteen years older than the picture of him Goren had just been contemplating, Jack looked at present as though every one of those years had caught up with him, hard. _He isn't sleeping_, Goren thought, but did not comment. He had seen cops look much the same way after a particularly traumatic case, and the only cure for it was time. Time, and the company of friends.

Except, he reflected, that McAllister had just lost one of his friends and would lose another in the very near future.

"It's an interesting idea. Map out your lives over the past few years… I suppose it makes it easier to see where you came from, where you're going to."

McAllister grinned tiredly. "Actually, I've always taken the view that it just saves you having to put them into an album, but yeah, there's that too." He stared at the wall for a few seconds, then added apropos of nothing, "Drew does that. You can always tell when he's trying to work something out, because he throws the papers all over the floor. Says it's easier when you can see things and move them around…"

He suddenly fell silent, and an awkward silence descended and lingered. Goren returned his attention to the images. Previously, he had looked only at part of the wall, knowing that the pictures he was particularly interested in did not appear until towards the end of the wall of photographs, the area covering the past two years, when Sienna Tovitz had come to London and met — or rather been introduced to — Jack and Tanya. Now, though, he deliberately returned his gaze to the top of the wall.

Unlike the more recent images, the pictures there did not flow in neat chronological order, but there were large gaps, representing times when neither Jack nor Tanya had been taking photographs of events in their lives, such as Tanya's operations abroad with the British Army, and whatever Jack had done with his life before he decided to turn to journalism. Part of Goren's mind couldn't help thinking that that was odd; most journalists he'd met had been writing since they were teenagers working on their high school newsletters, and anyone trying to break into the profession in their mid-twenties would surely face massive competition… but, further down the wall, there was Jack in a suit, collecting some kind of journalists' award, with a beaming Tanya beside him.

And here and there, popping up like the grinning joker in the pack, there was Drew, or Andrew Davenport, to give him his full name, or _that bastard_, as Goren privately thought of him. Throughout most of the wall, he appeared only intermittantly, although Goren noted that in one picture showing him and Tanya drinking together, he looked to be barely out of his teens. Halfway down, there was one picture of him and Jack together, and though it was not dated, he would guess that Jack was not much older there than in the graduation photograph at the start of the wall. Oddly, they were both dressed in formal suits, black tuxedos that, if anything, highlighted how young they looked, or at least, Goren thought, how young they looked in comparison to the men they were now.

Then suddenly, around three years ago by Goren's reckoning, he began to appear more frequently. Pictures of the three of them together also became more frequent, and the background was often either Tanya and Jack's house, or the training hall Tanya ran for her martial arts classes. And then, two years later…

A short, red-haired woman began to appear then, her face faintly unhappy despite the smiles she had worn to be photographed. He knew now that Andrew Davenport had introduced her to Jack and Tanya immediately after she moved to London, and that the four of them seemed to have almost instantly bonded into a close-knit group of friends.

Although Jack, Tanya and Davenport had known each other for years, it appeared that the arrival of Sienna had been the catalyst for a closer friendship developing between them, and photographs of the four of them as a group became more common. Here a Christmas party, there someone's birthday celebrations. Here a holiday somewhere Mediterranean, and there, towards the end, a large cluster of photographs taken in a muddy field, representing their trip to last year's Glastonbury Festival. Yet again, he found his eye drawn to the one in the centre. There was something about it that bothered him.

It showed the four of them — Jack, Tanya, Davenport and Sienna — together. Tanya and Davenport were stood next to each other, with Jack in front of Tanya, her free arm draped over his left shoulder. Her other arm was supporting Sienna, who was sitting across Tanya and Davenport's shoulders; half her weight on Tanya's right shoulder, half on Davenport's left. All of them were holding beer bottles, and they were clad in T-shirts and shorts, laughing in the sunshine.

The staging of the photo, though slightly odd, was not what bothered him. There was a nearly-identical picture far at the top of the wall with Tanya and several of her fellow soldiers from her time in the Army arranged in a similar way, although on that occasion Tanya herself was being supported on the shoulders of two hefty male soldiers.

He still could not put his finger on what irritated him about that photograph, and his train of thought was interrupted by the sudden realisation that he'd been silent for the past few minutes, and McAllister obviously thought that he was offended.

"Sorry. I know he's not your favourite person right now. Truth be told, not mine either." McAllister's voice was deeply unhappy. Goren sympathised, but could offer no comfort, and simply shrugged, trying to convey with a single movement that on the one hand, he disliked Andrew Davenport with a strength of feeling that bordered on hate, and that on the other, he was aware that the man had been one of Jack McAllister's closest friends, and that he, Goren, was about to deprive him of another.

"Well, anyway, I'll see you tomorrow." McAllister shrugged, and trudged away, his shoulders slumped. Goren watched him go, and rubbed his forehead.

He should be on top of the world right now, he thought. Not only had he caught the killer he and Eames had been pursuing, he had been instrumental in foiling a terrorist attack on a major sports stadium in London, saving thousands of lives. In the process, he and Sienna had been reunited two years after they had both thought that they had broken up for good and would never see each other again. An image of Sienna, beautiful in the warm night air on the night of their reconciliation, floated into his mind, but it was spoiled slightly by another image. Sienna, trying not to cry as she embraced Jack and Tanya, all of them murmuring reassuringly that her proposed move back to New York didn't have to mean the end for their friendship, not at all, there was always email, and Skype, and they could visit now and then…

He sighed. As if to underline how conflicted his feelings were, his eye was caught by a photograph towards the bottom of the wall; Davenport, grinning sardonically. Unusually for the wall, it was a picture of him on his own, taken in the past few years. He was seated at the kitchen table in Jack and Tanya's house, and whoever had taken the photograph (Jack? Sienna?) had obviously just shouted at him to look up at the camera, so that he looked up at the photographer with a grin of amusement, a grin that now seemed to be mocking Goren, wordlessly asking _Are _you _worth her giving up her friends for? Her job? Her life? Didn't work out too well the last time around, hmm? _

With a growl of annoyance, Goren dragged his eyes away from the picture, rejecting it with the thought _That was your fault. Your fault. It was all your fault. _

Of course, rationally he knew it hadn't been, that he and Sienna had had problems long before Sienna decided to make the serious mistake of confiding her doubts over their relationship in Davenport, whom she considered a friend, having met him on the same surveillance operation where she and Goren had met. Davenport had repaid her trust and affection by persuading her that she should leave New York, and Goren, to take up a post with Interpol in London, and then getting her shot on a sting operation he had set up to catch a Metropolitan police inspector he suspected (correctly) of leaking information to an Eastern European human trafficking gang. 

That in itself might have been forgiveable, Goren thought, were it not for the fact that Sienna (and the thought was painful) had been in love with the suspect in question, DI John Durham. Rationally, he knew she had met him on the rebound from their break-up. Certainly, he himself had numbed the pain of losing her in the arms of several of his old girlfriends plus a few casual pick-ups in bars, but it still hurt to think that Sienna had replaced him so quickly.

And again, that would not in itself have been reason to hate Andrew Davenport. His reason for hating Davenport was simple. Davenport had never told Sienna that DI John Durham was under investigation for corruption, not because he hadn't known, but because he _had_. Indeed, he had persuaded her to come to London for precisely that reason. He needed bait to entrap Durham, and Sienna had been perfect; a young, attractive, intelligent female who Durham had no reason to suspect, as she had only just arrived in the city.

And then, for nearly two years after that, he had kept silent. He had never told Sienna that the pain, both physical and mental, she had suffered was not the result of bad luck, but because he had decided that she should be used to achieve his goals. Goren was still struck by the intimate nature of that betrayal; there were enough pictures of Sienna and Davenport hanging out together on the wall to show that they had become very close friends indeed.

And then Jack McAllister had worked out what had happened, and confronted Davenport with it in hearing range of everyone involved; Sienna, Goren, Eames and Tanya. And Davenport hadn't denied it. In fact… 

Goren heard again Davenport's words on the rooftop that night. He had actually had the nerve, the arrogance, to accuse Goren of being the one who had hurt Sienna. "Did you know that when Sienna… _thinks _about other men, she compares them to you?"

And again, in that sardonic English accent: "Did you know that when Sienna… _thinks _about other men, she compares them to you?"

And there it was, the thought he was trying to avoid. What had Davenport been going to say, before he paused? Before he changed whatever he had originally been going to say?

No. It was unthinkable.

Bad enough that one of the latest, most recent pictures on the wall showed Davenport with his arms around another man, a young black man by the name of Michael Jones. They were obviously smitten with each other. Davenport's expression was oddly tender, almost protective, the only picture on the wall where he wasn't either smirking or grinning, and the younger man was relaxed against him, smiling widely, secure in the embrace of someone he loved. British law gave gays and lesbians the right to form civil partnerships, and when Goren had met Davenport for the first time in nearly three years, just three weeks ago, one of the first things he had noticed was that he was wearing a thin platinum ring as a sign of his engagement; bitter irony when he had nearly deprived Goren of the love of his life.

No. If nothing else, it was an absurd thought. Davenport was _gay_, after all, as he, Goren, knew quite well (another memory of Davenport's voice from three years ago, speaking to Sienna: "Sweetheart, it's not YOU I'm interested in").

And yet… His attention returned to the photograph of the four of them at Glastonbury. The sunshine indicated that it had been taken late in the festival, as the earlier photographs showed the whole site being covered in mud, and he suddenly realised what the discrepancy was.

In the photograph, Sienna was wearing a T-shirt depicting a white hand holding a hand-grenade in the shape of a heart and the words: "Green Day: American Idiot" across the top. Pretty standard festival garb, except that in an earlier photograph, _Davenport _had been wearing it. And, looking more closely, it was the same T-shirt, the letters showing identical signs of heavy wear and tear in both photographs. And looking at the back of the photographs, they had been taken on consecutive days.

He was being stupid. Ridiculous. After all, even if he was right, it made no difference. The past was past.

_The past never is past_, he thought, and then realised that he should go to bed and sleep. The day after tomorrow, a Sunday, he and Eames would be flying out to New York, and after that he would not see Sienna for at least a month, probably longer. The thought of being separated again after they had just found each other was unbearable, but they would both have to bear it. He did not intend to ruin what would be their last day together by yawning all the way through it, and resolved to put all these thoughts out of his mind.

Except that in the months since, he had been drawn back to the memory of the wall of pictures, and the thoughts he had had in front of it.

It didn't matter. Not at all.


	2. Elephant in the Room

**Author's Note**:

This scene takes place four months after the ending of "Bulletproof Armour" (and the events in the last chapter).

_Apartment of Sienna Tovitz._

_New York, November 2005._

I exhale heavily as I drop the phone into its cradle. He looks up from his newspaper.

"Bad news?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and resist the urge to rub my leg. I should put this more tactfully, but Bobby always says he appreciates my honesty, the way I'm always straightforward with him, so the hell with it. "Phone call from England; that was Jack. Apparently ex-Detective Inspector John Durham has been approved for parole. He'll be out of prison within the year."

"Ah."

The elephant in the room stands there, partially obscuring our view of each other. We stare at it and try to think how to begin this conversation. I have an ache in my gut, and I suddenly feel desperately tired. I never used to get depressed. Then again, I never used to feel the bone-deep satisfaction of a good result on a case, the deep triumph of knowing I and my team have done something good for society, so I guess it's swings and roundabouts.

Strange that in leaving him, I became more like him. In the two years we were apart, I came to understand Bobby's mind better than ever.

He sniffs the air and bounds to his feet. "I think that casserole's nearly done." I'm going to give him a pass for that. I don't conduct conversations well when I'm hungry. I wander into my kitchen to watch.

My kitchen. Another new development. I never had a place of my own before. Bobby does not like it. Not the apartment itself, which is the nicest I can afford (translation: the nicest my family's money can afford. Hell, if they want to sling it at me, it may as well be used for something I actually like). The fact that, unlike previously, moving in with him is not my necessarily my only or my best option. I can stay here the rest of my life if I so choose.

Don't _really_ want to, though…I gaze across at him, and, as if drawn on strings, my eyes are drawn to his backside in those blue jeans as he bends down to check the dish in the oven. I grin at myself and lighten up momentarily. _Same old Sienna, lusting after the handsome tall quirky man_, I think to myself with amusement.

Physical attraction has never been our problem, though. I still feel the urge to get into bed with him as strongly as ever. He's lost a little weight recently and looks very good indeed, although I didn't particularly mind him being a bit heavier. A sudden sense-memory of his solid weight on top of me the first time in my new bed causes me to flush with remembered pleasure, delicious warmth and strength and… _eat first, sex later_, I remind myself with a wry smile, _and resist the urge to take your boyfriend hard right up against the counter… _

I restrain myself, and he carries the food through to where I set the table earlier, and we eat facing each other. Sometimes it's nice to make an effort. Neither of us wants to turn into the sort of couple who only ever eat off our knees facing the TV. Yet again, though, I notice how awkward he looks. Partly it's due to the fact that the apartment is sized for me, not for him, in other words for someone not far off a foot shorter than his impressive six foot four inches height. Partly…

Partly, I think, it's insecurity. It was he, after all, who asked me to return to New York, and ever since then, I think he has feared that I'll regret my decision. I try to reassure him, but not too much; too much and I would just be feeding that insecurity. He has to get himself to a place where he feels confident that I'll stay, and much as I'd like to promise "Don't worry, Bobby my love, I'll never leave you, ever", much as I'd like the remembered delights of living with him, his presence surrounding me whenever I was at home, waking up to find him there… now is not yet the right time for that.

And this isn't going to help.

We finish eating, and can no longer put off the evil hour. He goes first. "So… do you want to talk about it?"

I do my best to return his effort; the words "talk about it" are among the hardest for him to say.

"Honestly, I'm not sure what I want to say. It's part of the past." Except for every time either of us catches sight of my left thigh. The scar there has faded about as much as it's ever going to. Bobby has trained himself not to notice it, but I sense that inside his head, part of him remembers when I was flawless – his young, innocent, beautiful Sienna – and mourns for that.

"You must have some feelings about it."

I try not to be annoyed. For Bobby, probing someone else's feelings is as instinctive as breathing. Well, except when they might affect him personally... Firmly, I stamp on the bitterness. I swore when I came back that I would never throw what happened between us in the past at his head.

"I regret the whole damn thing, Bobby. What else can I say?" I shut my eyes and the memories come back…

My first team meeting in the Metropolitan Police offices. Meeting my new team, doing my best to keep up the public face, create a good impression. Still groggy from the remnants of jet leg, culture shock and the pain of losing him.

Then I notice the man standing at the back of the room. DI John Durham, rising star of the Metropolitan Police. One of the youngest men to make the rank of Detective Inspector in the Met, and utterly committed to his chosen speciality of tackling the Russian and Eastern European mafias in London. I know him by reputation. The reputation does not include "dark curly hair, dark eyes, tall, nice-looking", but that is mainly what I notice.

Yes, I know. It had "rebound" written all over it. Or, more accurately, "trying to replace Bobby" written all over it.

Behind me, our contact from MI5, Liaison Officer Davenport, grins, the shark-like grin I've come to know very well over the past year. He's been such a reliable source of information for me in my new job in New York. We've done each other a lot of favours. Hell, he even listened to me pour out my despair about how things were going with Bobby when, following a visit to Interpol's London offices, I'd been stuck in Heathrow airport for several hours due to a delayed flight and, dreading my return to the atmosphere in Bobby's apartment, drank one vodka too many in the airport bar. And when things were going badly, he found this new position, suggested I apply for it, get away from the situation.

I'd like to think of him as a friend, but my judgement warns me that, despite his friendly manner towards me, all the favours he's done me, I still don't really know him.

Next, a kaleidoscope of images. John and I exchanging glances in meetings. My amazement that my heart wasn't actually frozen cold after Bobby and I split up. John taking me out to dinner. My discovering that, suddenly, I seemed to be attractive to men. John describing in earnest tones his dreams for the future, his plans for his career. His polite knowledge of my career, his interest in my stories of my travels, my experiences in New York. The way in which I rapidly came to look forward to seeing him as an escape from the stresses of work and, even more so, the aching void that opened up every night when I tried to sleep without Bobby's solid warmth beside me.

Drew and his friends, my new friends, Jack and Tanya, being quietly supportive of my moving on. Drew commenting once that he was impressed by how resilient I was, moving on so quickly.

The inevitable happening after one night's dining out, drinks, him dropping me off at my apartment… My amazement that my libido still existed.

My belief, blind and stupid as only a person on the rebound can be, that I might have lost one man, but perhaps I'd managed to replace him with someone who was nearly, almost, as good.

One month after we started sleeping together, Drew's voice on the phone (_Drew_ to me, now, not _Davenport_, his hated surname, or _Andrew_, which only his boss and his MI5 colleagues call him). Grave, serious, and a little concerned.

"SiSi, I've got some bad news…"

The memory comes back and will not be denied. Drew's expression, so pained, so uncomfortable, as he relates in strict confidence that John, my new boyfriend, my new lover, is on the take. And in a big way.

Every meal I've eaten with him, everything he's bought me, paid for by drugs and trafficked women. That's where the people DI John Durham makes deals with make their money.

And Drew is now responsible for catching him, as he explains softly, spreading out the photos, the phone tap evidence, the computer logs, that prove it to me beyond all doubt. Bitter coincidence, that my new friend is supposed to take down my new boyfriend.

Drew's voice, honeyed, softly persuasive: "I know it must be a major shock, but do you think you can… pretend? Get the information out of him, so we can nail him and the people he makes deals with? Has he mentioned anything about getting you involved?"

Yes, I think sadly, he has. Has hinted that he knows how I can get information that no-one else can. Even someone as naïve as I apparently am knows what that means.

So I agree, and Drew smiles that charming smile of his. "You're doing the right thing."

Another kaleidoscope of images. Me, playing my role to perfection, enticing John into telling me everything. The dark hunger inside me roils, turning me hard, manipulative, bitterly determined. I hate him now. Hate him for making me a fool, twice over. I will take him for everything he has, and my reputation will be made, my position within Interpol and the Metropolitan Police cemented, when Drew and I catch him red-handed.

And so I go with John to meet his contacts in the Eastern European criminal network he makes deals with. Wired up, of course.

And so Drew is there as backup, him, several other spooks, and a couple of police vans hidden down side alleys.

And so… I can't remember clearly. Well, I can. I repeated it any number of times in court, and the prosecution never once caught me out. But I don't want to.

I wince as yet again the only memory I can't ever hide from flashes through my head. The quick movement of the man standing in front of us as he realises what John, blinded by lust, didn't; I'm an undercover agent.

John's urgent shove, sending me flying as the gun fires, once, twice, and my leg feels suddenly as though someone has branded it with a hot iron.

Noise and commotion, and a voice screaming.

Drew's voice beside me, swearing regularly, monotonously, as he tries to stem the bleeding. Have I wet myself with the pain, or is it just blood? I can't tell, can't think, and my hearing is going, my vision tunnelling, then going black…

The next thing I know, I'm in a hospital bed, and my friends, thank God, are there when I wake up.

I skip over the months of physiotherapy and other therapy, as I bring myself back to the present and force myself to meet Bobby's dark eyes. I shrug. "I think it's fair to say that my attitude is best summed up like this; it's part of the past, he's on the other side of the Atlantic, and in any case, given the sort of people he turned informer on, he's probably got the life expectancy of a gnat on a griddle. Unless he goes into witness protection, I suppose… but even then…" I catch sight of Bobby wincing at that, and immediately I'm irritated, exhaling sharply with annoyance.

"What's wrong?" he asks, looking as though he really doesn't want the answer. I call upon all my resources of self-control.

"What's wrong, Bobby, is that every time I act like a Interpol Section Head, you look at me with that wretched expression on your face. Sorry, I know you still wish I was the naive 26-year-old you fell for nearly five years ago, but life happens." Whoops. Self-control seriously not in evidence there.

He closes his eyes and I can see him sorting through possible responses. He settles upon "I never thought you were naïve."

"Maybe not, but you sure as hell aren't too happy with the person I am now."

He glares at me, which I actually prefer to his previous approach of acting calm and rational… _and superior_, I think with a wince of recollection. "I'm trying to adjust, okay? I haven't seen you in two years, and I love you and I want you, but every so often I get reminded that you changed, and it's not always easy for me to deal with that."

I can't stop myself from replying: "Well, you think it was always a barrel of laughs to live with Bobby Goren, headfucker extraordinaire?" His face darkens, and I realise that that was _way_ too far, and I need to apologise. He stands up and picks up his coat, then turns without a word and walks to the door.

I could let him go, but, no, I am not going to let him leave like that. Giving up too quickly is what did for us the last time around, and I know with a sudden surge of certainty that I am not going to give up on this, ever, unless he does.

"Bobby… I'm sorry."

He doesn't turn round.

"That was an horrible thing for me to say."

"No, it wasn't." He mutters that, standing stock-still by the door.

"Yes, it was. That was a cruel way of putting it."

He looks back over his shoulder at me, and looks very tired. "Yes, but the truth is still there, isn't it? No matter how you say it."

I choose my words carefully. "Bobby… before, you were tough, and strong, and I used to look at you and think that it was marvellous that someone so caring in private could be so tough, so manipulative, so ruthless in public. If I'm being honest… I used to be a little afraid of you sometimes."

He looks at me, and the depth, the seriousness in those beautiful dark sleepy eyes, touches my heart. I am suddenly aware that I love him so much it hurts.

"But I changed, Bobby. I had to change, I had to toughen up, or I could never have done my job properly. And you know what? I love it. I love having my own team to lead, and people who depend on me. I love putting the team together, and guiding them, and showing off my translation skills, just to remind them that I know what it's like on the frontline… I love it like you love your job, despite everything it's done to me. I know I'm doing the right thing."

His expression is better, now, but he's still not looking happy. He drops his coat on the couch, though, which is an improvement.

"You went away for a few minutes there," he observes in a questioning tone. I prefer inquisitive Bobby to prickly Bobby, so, a definite improvement.

I rub my face, a gesture I realise I've copied from him. "Yeah. Just… thinking about the whole thing." I look up. "You know what? I want to hate him. I can't help thinking, it was just so typical that just after I find out what he did to me, he goes and gets himself heroically shot. How can you hate someone who's lying in a hospital bed with a shattered arm because they tried to protect innocent people from being killed?"

Bobby realises quickly that I'm not talking about John Durham anymore, who frankly I really don't care that much about anymore. The infatuation blew over real fast after he got me shot. Correction. After he and Davenport, in their own separate ways, got me shot.

Because Drew knew all along that DI John Durham was corrupt.

Knew, and didn't tell me that. Not until I was in so deep that John would take me along and that I could be used to entrap him, because he was, after all, a very clever man and a good police officer, and nothing else they'd tried had worked.

Because every word Drew said to me (his concerned voice, echoing in memory in that wretched airport bar, "Sienna, you know what? Sounds to me like this guy-" meaning Bobby "-sees you as something warm to fuck at the end of the day and that's it. You're worth more than that") was aimed at precisely what happened. I came to London. I was Drew Davenport's perfect bait for DI John Durham, and every time we trained together at Tanya's self-defence academy, every time we had drinks with her and Jack afterwards, every time the four of us met and our friendship developed, Drew knew what he was doing and kept silent.

Sometimes, if I'm feeling charitable, I wonder if Drew intended to tell me about John's corruption before we fell for each other, but didn't get chance.

Then I remember the way he fucked with my head to see if he could get me to leave Bobby, and I stop feeling charitable real fast.

Another memory. Jack McAllister, Drew's friend and mine, talking to Drew during the summer, that night after we all – myself, Drew, Bobby, Alex Eames, Tanya and Jack – thought we'd gotten away with our little unauthorised investigation into the London Stadium Plot (as the tabloids liked to call it), nailed the bad guys, hooray for us. (Wrongly, as it turned out.)

Jack's voice, on the roof of his house as he told Drew that he'd figured out what I should have suspected a long time ago; "Drew, you screwed with her head to get her to leave her partner, and then you used her as bait without telling her."

Quiet, clever Jack. The one who, out of the four of us, everyone overlooked. Who had made his career by keeping quiet and looking nondescript, listening to people's little indiscretions, and slowly, methodically, putting together the pieces to come up with the truth.

Jack, my _real_ friend.

The horror I felt as I overheard. As I stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening to Jack's voice. Still, ridiculously, clad in the shorts and crop top I'd worn to the gym, where I'd gone to work out my aggression after Bobby and I – who had met each other for the first time in two years only the day before - had had a really spectacular shouting match, in which I'd finally said things I'd been wanting to say for two years.

Still half-planning what I was going to say to Bobby, I'd listened in horror as Jack, unintentionally, rewrote my entire script for what had happened in the last two years. I hadn't bravely made a new start in a new country. Inside, someone I'd trusted, who I'd come to regard as a friend (a rare privilege; Drew was as guarded as Bobby when it came to letting people get close to him), had callously and deliberately manipulated me.

I'd felt so sick I'd staggered into the bathroom, thinking I was going to pass out, and heard footsteps rush past the door. Hadn't known that Bobby, too, was listening in.

Drew, my friend, had screwed me over. Had screwed up my life. And I couldn't even accuse him of being selfish, because John Durham's being on the take was harming a lot of people, many of them vulnerable trafficked women, and if there was one thing I hated and wanted to see ended, it was that. Just like with all Drew's little schemes, I thought bitterly. He'd done it for no great personal profit, other than being able to do his job. Purely and solely for the greater good.

Bastard.

And then, less than two days later, he took a rifle slug through his left arm whilst trying to stop a sniper shooting innocent people, and now it's unlikely he'll ever work again as a field agent.

In the present, Bobby sighs. "You have every right to hate him."

"I don't know what to think any more, Bobby. He and I were friends. The four of us, we used to hang around together all the time. They were like my family, except that I don't get on with my family." I break off and shake my head in resignation. "Part of me hates his guts. Part of me… part of me wants to visit him and tell him it'll be alright, except he doesn't want to see me." I didn't blame him. If anything I was grateful. Screaming at a guy who was likely to be crippled for life wasn't going to make me any happy, no matter how much he deserved it. I look at Bobby, and he looks as tired as I feel. "How did we start talking about this?"

"I don't know…" He tilts his head on one side, a gesture so familiar that seeing it again makes me feel weak and at the same time fiercely determined never to lose him again. "I guess I was just trying to understand you."

I smile tiredly. "Thanks. Shall we continue this conversation through there?" I jerk my thumb at our bedroom. I desperately want to go to bed and rest.

He shakes his head gently. "Sienna… I think I'd like to be on my own for a bit. Sort things out… in here." He taps his forehead.

I feel suddenly panicky. "Bobby… I'm really, really sorry I called you _that_."

He grins, a lopsided grin. "Well, you're not the first. I guess there is some truth in it. I'm not a very nice guy, a lot of the time."

I could mouth platitudes back at him, but I go for honesty instead. "Maybe not, but you always have a reason for it, and… well. _I_ know how nice you can be." I can't help smiling fondly in happy recollection. Not just of the sex – although Bobby can be so generous and giving that it's nearly unbelievable – but of the times he cooked pancakes, or got me a drink without asking, or on one occasion just ran me a hot shower and tided my bathroom…

He manages a smile, and looks tired. "You go to bed. I might sleep out here… I'll just see how I feel."

I smile, blow him a kiss, and turn away, but not before catching a dark expression on his face. I suddenly realise, as I get changed and slide between the sheets, that I think I know what it is.

Jealousy.

Well, in some ways that's not a surprise, I think, remembering all the times Bobby would nip at my shoulder, leaving little marks on me. I used to like that, but I always sensed there was a very strong desire to have me all to himself running under there. Which was fine; I felt the same way about him. It occurs to me, though, that he cannot be happy about the knowledge that I slept with someone else whilst we were apart. (God forbid he ever finds out the exact details … well, I suppose the truth will have to come out some time.)

Oh well. He knows I'm here.

I stare unhappily at the door before flopping back into the pillows, thinking that I love him dearly, but only he can decide what he wants. I hope for both our sakes he decides soon.


	3. The Drugs Don't Work

"Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown

This time I'm coming down.

And I hope you're thinking of me,

As you lay down on your side.

Now the drugs don't work, they just make you worse

But I know I'll see your face again."

_The Verve, "The Drugs Don't Work"._

**Author's Note**: As an experiment, I'm writing some chapters of this fic from different characters' perspectives. It turned out when I was writing it that all the characters from "Bulletproof Armour" had their own stories that needed to be told...

It's a little unorthodox for a "Criminal Intent" fanfic, but I think anyone who's stuck with my little series this far won't be too put off, especially as there will be more Sienna and Bobby in the next chapter.

Please note that the rating is about to go up to 'M', so you'll need to adjust the Fic Ratings setting on the page to be able to see it when I update.

_St Vincent's Hospital, London_

_July 2005._

_One week after the end of "Bulletproof Armour". _

I _hate_ that fucking clock.

I lie here, and I hate everything about it. I hate the giant crack across the front of it, so that when it gets close to ten or four o'clock, you have to guess the time. I hate the officious white, red and black colours, and the way the face is carefully labelled with the hours, the hours for the twenty-four hour clock, and the minutes. I especially hate the way it is positioned so that the only way you can't see it if you're lying in bed is to close your eyes. Open them and, sooner or later, your eyes are drawn, as if by a giant magnet, to find out that, yep, it's still only two minutes since you last looked, and you still have another twenty-four hours to get through.

Most of all, I hate its annoying tick, the way it fills the entire room, so that you can't ignore it even if your eyes are shut. The next time Mike visits me, I'm going to get him to take the batteries out, and then maybe I can get some rest.

Two weeks ago, I was Drew Davenport, successful MI5 agent, with friends, a partner I was engaged to, and a left arm that worked.

Seven days ago, I risked my career, my life, and my friends' lives and careers, on a hunch. A hunch that turned out to be right. A lot of people are alive and walking around right now, thanks to me.

At this moment in time, I'm lying here on my back with a large chunk of my left arm missing, unarmed in more ways than one; my gun is still at home and they won't let me have it. A large part of my bloodstream is basically morphine, which would be fun, except that they can't quite give me enough, so I can't move because it makes the pain worse.

I'm stuck in a hospital gown, and no-one can tell me whether I'll get the use of my arm back. I'm supposed to be being guarded – there's always someone outside the door – but I don't trust that. I'm not even sure I still have a job with Five anymore. Plus I managed to smash my right shoulderblade on a chair when I was knocked backwards by the rifle slug that took out my arm. Right now it's cracked all the way across; the lower half is detached from the upper half, so I really have no choice but to lie still against the padding on the bed and wait for it to grow back together.

Oh, and my friends aren't speaking to me, I've got a song by bloody Richard Ashcroft stuck in my head, and I'm reduced to hating an inanimate object.

Something about all this seems vaguely unfair.

The one thing I have now is time. Time to think, except that all the drugs are having a strange effect. I slip through time inside my head; images from the past emerge which I haven't thought of for years, and I have to fight to put all the memories in order. I have very little control. One minute I'm reliving what it's like to be seven and trying to keep sticklebacks in a jar (a pointless exercise, because they always die), the next my heart thumps with the memory of trying to bluff a Russian mafia boss into thinking I work for a rival organisation and want to defect, knowing that if he suspects me for one second, I'll be out of the back door with a bullet in my head.

And then there are the memories I don't want to live through again, the soft male voice saying "Andy…"

I fight back against that one, and another voice comes into my head, another memory, nearly twenty years old now.

"_Andy, can you get dinner again tomorrow night? I've got a lot of visits to do, and it's the church council meeting in the evening." _

"_Alright, Dad, yeah, but it's probably going to be microwaved chicken korma and jacket spuds." _

(And yet again, I remember what it's like to be sixteen, and small for your age, and trying to figure out who you are and where you're going, and I really, really don't want to go through this again, but the memory rolls on regardless.)

"_Thanks, Andy. You and me, we manage alright, don't we?"_

"_Yeah. Actually, Dad, I'm going to be out with Stevie tomorrow, so if you're not in I'll just leave it in the oven and you can heat it up when you get in." _

"_So… when am I going to meet this Stevie?" _

"_Um." _

"_She must be pretty important to you. I've hardly seen you these past few weeks." _

"_Well, yeah." _

"_Come on, Andy, if she's important to you I'd like to meet her. Bring her round for dinner some time." _

"_He." _

"_I'm sorry?"_

"_Stevie's a he. It's short for Steven." _

_A pause. "Andy…"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_It's good to have friends, and I'm glad you and this Stevie are getting on so well. But, and don't take this personally, it's not a judgement, but you need to start socialising with a wider group of people. It's a lot easier to relate to girls if you have some female friends to begin with." _

"_Dad… um…"_

"_What is it, Andy?"_

"_You don't get it, do you?"_

"_Get what, Andy?"_

"_Stevie's not just my friend."_

"_I'm sorry."_

"_He's… more than a friend." _

"_I don't understand you, Andy."_

"_He's a… well… you could say he's sort of a boyfriend." _

"_Really." _

(That one word. Icy cold. No going back after that. I really can't think of many other occasions when I've been that terrified. If I'd known what was coming, of course, I'd have been even more scared.)

"_Andy, you know what the Church teaches about that. What I've taught you." _

"_Yeah, but Dad, I don't agree with it." _

"_It's understandable to be confused at your age…"_

"I'm not confused! I know what I'm doing."

"_Then you know it's wrong. It's not natural, and it's not right."_

"_It's natural for me!" _

"_No, it isn't. I don't know who this Stevie is, but whatever he's been telling you, this is not what God wants for you. Andy, you're setting yourself apart from _God_ when you…"_

"_Fuck God and fuck the Church! They don't know anything! It's a load of bollocks!" _

"_Andy, you will _not_ speak to me like that. I'm trying to show you the right way to live, and you will show me some respect."_

"_I'll speak however I fucking like! It's my house too!"_

"_No, it isn't. I work for both of us, Andy, so that you can have a roof over your head, and as long as that roof is my roof, you'll abide by my rules."_

"_Right then. I'm leaving."_

"_Don't be stupid." _

"_You're the one who just said I should leave!" _

"_Andy, you're behaving like a child. Go upstairs and calm down." _

"_No, I fucking won't! I'm going out. With Stevie." _

…and I'm not doing this any more. I'm not going to go through this. If I'm going to be stuck here, I may as well use the time constructively. I take control of my mind, and decide to go through the events that led to me being here, see if I can learn something from them.

So, it's four years ago, and I'm standing outside an office in New York, meeting a New York cop, two CIA agents and two Interpol officers for the first time. I'm wearing my "Liason Officer" face, all bright and professional, just here to provide the information, because one of the reasons I'm here is that my boss suspects that one of the CIA agents – the senior guy, Daniel Smith – is corrupt, and I don't want him picking up on the fact that I have two reasons for being on this surveillance op. Primary reason; get the evidence to put Ivan Shorokogat, an Eastern European mafia boss, away for life.

Secondary reason; watch Daniel Smith, see if I can find any evidence to prove he's corrupt, then take appropriate action. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not an assassin, haven't the training… but, my gun sits snugly under my arm, and I'm authorised to use it if I have to. Right now, though, I'm doing the hi-nice-to-meet-you thing with Detective Goren, then the Interpol officers, Tim Whitefield and Sienna Tovitz.

Going to be interesting, having a female along. Especially, I can't help noticing, a young, pretty, very keen, very competent female. My interest in her is purely professional, for the simple reason that _Goren_ is more my type. Happily, I encountered an old fuck buddy of mine, Declan the air steward, on the way over here, which is good. I try to get laid before I go out on field duty, stops you getting distracted. Plus Declan's shift pattern should coincide with my flight home, which will make for a fun celebration if all this goes well.

I like having women around on operations like this. They pick up on things that men usually miss (did you know that when they interviewed people who encountered the 9/11 terrorists prior to the attacks, nearly all the women said they sensed there was something wrong about them? The one guy who said that was an actor, trained to sense emotion and respond to it). A mixed team is better, stronger.

So, the operation…

The images are running through my head now. I see: the meeting, Sienna scribbling urgently whilst Smith drones on about how the CIA won't fund the operation, whilst everyone alternatively looks bored / tries to look interested. Goren looking vaguely lost, I guess because he doesn't have his partner, Alex Eames, with him, and I suspect he's the kind of guy who likes an audience.

Goren stalking round the table, haranguing Smith into submission, whilst Sienna suddenly blushes furiously and I wonder why. Happily, I both can read upside down and have a working grasp of Russian, and I have to stop myself from grinning. My, she has an evil sense of humour. Good grasp of the male psyche, too. And… oh, this is interesting, something about the way she starts blushing hugely (and I do mean _hugely_) when Goren catches her eye on the way out suddenly tells me that there's parts of Goren she'd like to have a good grasp of, too.

A few more; myself, Goren and Sienna in that Jeep on the way up there, me doing my best Davenport-the-affable-guy routine, because I've already sensed that these two could be very useful. Good allies. I can't tell them why I'm really here though, even if I wanted to, and I don't. I can already tell that Goren isn't someone whose reactions you can predict.

Correct judgement on my part; after a storm disrupts the surveillance operation (by killing Shorokogat, which is really fucking annoying when you think how long I've been after this guy; damn it, I _deserve_ to watch him stand trial) over the next twenty-four hours, Goren manages to organise a rescue operation for the survivors of a plane crash, which I go along with, largely on the grounds that with Shorokogat dead, I've got bugger-all chance of finding out anything useful about Daniel Smith, and I may as well put my medical skills to good use. Medical skills come in real handy for field work; pose as a medic and most people won't bother to check your credentials. Then…

…then, it turns out that a) Shorokogat's son survived the boating accident which killed his father, b) that Daniel Smith has decided that with Shorokogat dead, he's going to tie up loose ends by killing anyone who knows about what he's been doing, and c) that US Army medics have a really annoying tendency to get in the way when you're trying to defend yourself from a rogue CIA agent. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you think you're about to die; personally, I found that I just thought, _fuck_, this is a stupid way to go.

Then Goren and Sienna appeared over the horizon like the cavalry, and Sienna proved that she really was as smart as she looked, by managing to distract Smith long enough to give Goren and I a chance to recover and get the drop on Smith. Brave, too; she jumped in with us when we were tackling Smith, which takes a hell of a lot of nerve when you're unarmed. I admit it, I was impressed.

I grin at the next memory. The three of us in that bar, beer, burgers… and Sienna and Goren looking at each other in a way that makes it really, really hard, not to say "For fuck's sake, get a room". As it is, I settle for lying that the next bus home isn't for an hour - it's actually due in ten minutes, but, what the hell. Goren, naturally, volunteers to walk Sienna home.

I, equally naturally, catch the bus and follow them back to the Army base where we're staying, partly because I'm tired and need to rest, not having slept for more than a few hours in the last three days, largely because incurable nosiness is a big part of my personality. And then I heard the screaming…

Really can't help grinning now. Hey, what can I say. I'm gay; can't pass up the chance to eye up someone like Goren naked. Nice, nice, nice. And proportional.

Me on the way home, nursing bruised ribs plus a hangover, and trying vaguely to draft my report in a way that will disguise the fact that the honest truth is: "Shorokogat's dead, Interpol have got Daniel Smith, we weren't lucky this time, so it goes, sorry about the wasted airfare". Except, I think, not totally wasted. Little Miss Tovitz - or _Ms_ Tovitz, as I think she prefers to be known - is going to go places. I can sense it; she's got potential. Give it a few weeks, and I'll get back in touch, find her, ask how she is, how things are going, whether she decided to make the move from translating into analysis and planning...

Flash forward nearly a year. I'm on my way in to the office, all ready for a boring day of filing papers. People don't realise, but a big part of a spy's workload is going through papers, going through transcripts, writing up reports, submitting expense claims, etc. Boring as hell. On the plus side, I bumped into Graham Mulligan on the way in. Mulligan used to manage Finance and Human Resources. One of the happiest days of my life was when he transferred into Internal Security, and I realised I would never again get his annoying whine on the phone: "Davenport, can you just explain this item on your expense claim…" (honest answer: no, I can't, I'm a spy for fuck's sake, the whole point of employing someone like me is that you don't know what I'm doing, so you can deny it all later.)

Mulligan is also deeply annoyed by my habit of not wearing a tie, he thinks it's unprofessional, so I make a point of shucking my coat on the way in, just so that he can see that I'm not wearing one today and get a hit of that righteous indignation he seems to thrive on. I don't wear ties on principle, three principles; a) they look stupid, b) women don't have to wear them, and I dislike being discriminated against, c) there are enough people out there who'd like to throttle me, and wearing something round my neck would just make it easier for them.

My boss gives me her usual greeting: "Davenport, my office, _now_". I pause to compose my face into an expression of neutral expectancy (very versatile expression; it will do for both taking a bollocking and politely accepting praise, both of which happen to me on a regular basis) and head towards her office.

"Take a look at this." I pick up the file; it's headed "DI John Durham".

"As of now, this guy is your top priority."

This is better than paperwork. I cock my head on one side: "Isn't this a job for the Ghost Squad? Let the Met clean up their own messes."

Anne Langford, my boss, smiles wryly. "It would be, but Durham's accused of passing information to the Yenkovich trafficking gang. Your specialty."

I flip quickly through the file. "At first glance… I don't see any _proof_ in here. Are they sure he's corrupt?"

Langford sighs. "He's been involved in four operations. All of which have gone wrong to varying degrees. Never failed outright, you understand, but somehow the big fish always seem to slip through the net."

"How do we know it's not someone else?"

"He's the only person who was involved in all four, and who was senior enough to know that kind of information. Theoretically, it _could_ be others… it could be several low-level officers…"

I shake my head from long experience. "It won't be."

"I agree."

"So where's the proof?"

"We can't find it. That's your job." Langford smiles with a hint of steel. "Don't go screwing up, now."

_Not this time, I won't. _"How badly do we want the result?"

"Nail him." Langford's face is severe. "Whatever it takes, but the evidence has to stand up in court. Ideally we want him to turn informer."

I nod, and grin. I love a challenge.

Two days later, and I know a great deal about DI John Durham. I know for a certainty that he's corrupt; not because I have uncovered any convincing proof – not yet – but because I have seen this pattern before. Bright, capable officer. Worn down by the sheer unending grind of tackling organised crime that never goes away. Jealous of the fact that the people he goes after live the high life on the proceeds of their crime, whilst he takes home a copper's wages. Wondering why he bothers doing his job, when if the politicians would just legalise drugs and prostitution, every one of the people he's trying to catch would lose their source of income. (I have some sympathy with this, it must be said.)

Suddenly, someone offers him a deal. They'll keep him supplied with nice, easy collars, provide him with some spectacular arrests, so that his career takes off. They'll give him inside information on their rivals, he'll put them away, and everyone benefits. Especially the person offering the deal, who, every so often, will just ask DI Durham if he knows anything about investigations into them? Anything they should know? After all, Durham is their man now. If he doesn't keep them sweet, his career is over. Terminally over; they'd cut off his hands, bash out his teeth, skin off his face and _then_ shoot him as a lesson to anyone else who got the same idea.

I look at the picture of Durham in uniform, and scowl. He's supposed to be enforcing the law, and he knows only too well how the people he's supplying with information make their living. Durham is too fucking smart not to be realise what it must be like for the women the Yenkovich gang he's keeping in business are trafficking into this country, and that's before you get on to the drugs, the illegal immigrants, some of whom are escaping the law in their own countries, the fact that trafficking provides terrorists with potential routes into this country, plus the fact that Durham is putting his own colleagues at risk by sabotaging their work.

I look at the picture of Durham and think, _oh, so your job was getting you down? You were feeling all downhearted, and you figured what the hell, organised crime never goes away, so it won't make any difference if you make a deal with it? Too bad, pal, you don't do this job for the warm, fuzzy feelings. You do it for the joy of proving you're cleverer than the other bastard._

After three days, I'm forced to admit that DI John Durham may be a very clever bastard indeed. They've tried the obvious – wire taps, listening in, trying to break into his house, trying to get someone close to him – but it hasn't worked. Well, he's a good copper; he knows what to expect.

And then I have the idea.

DI John Durham currently has no girlfriend. The Ghost Squad team tried to get someone in, tried to get him interested in one of their female officers, but he saw that coming a mile off.

Doesn't mean it's not a good idea though. I just need a female he has no reason to suspect, ideally one loyal to us – loyal to me – perhaps working for another organisation, even…

And then Sienna's face pops into my head, and what a _perfect_ idea that is! I turn it round a few times to look for flaws, but all I can think is, she would be perfect for this. Just the right mix of youth and keenness with experience to get Durham interested, pretty as all hell, smart - I want Durham to be interested in her, not fuck her once and leave, he has to trust her enough to let her in his house, often – and experienced enough to know what to look for. I already know she's got the nerve. Better yet, she speaks and reads the language of the people Durham deals with. Even more perfect.

The only fly in the ointment is, she's currently shacked up in New York with Goren, which is a bit of a problem, but not an insoluble one. The last time she was over here, she and I got to talking, I asked after Goren, and got the face of "it's not going too well but I don't want to bore you with it – oh, go on, ask me about it, I want to talk". A little prodding, and she talked for over an hour about how she's worried about him, about where it's going, yadda yadda (answer: nowhere fast from what I can tell. Jesus, I'm glad I'm not straight; who wants all those _complications_?). Worth it, though; I think I have been promoted from "Occasional Source of Information and Vodka in Airport Bars" to "Gay Best Friend", and now that's going to pay off.

Plus, my contacts in Interpol's Serious and Organised Crime section tells me that they're creating a new post; Liaison Officer with the Metropolitan Police. This is going to work well for everyone. She gets the promotion and a big score to start her new career with, and really, she's wasted in New York running round after Tim Whitefield during the day and Goren at night. Time she got herself a nice shiny new promotion. Plus, I fancy having someone I can trust over in Interpol, and I already know that the two of us work well together.

Yes, it's the perfect solution. Just got to persuade her to apply for that promotion and move over here. I do love a bit of a challenge, but this shouldn't be too hard.

It occurs to me, as I head over to Langford's office to share this brilliant idea with her, that this is slightly rough luck on Goren, but hey, if he's not prepared to do what it takes to keep her over there, he's only got himself to blame.


	4. Locked Doors and Other Barriers

**Author's Note: **

Well, what do you know? It turns out Eames has her own story, too. Don't worry. More Bobby / Sienna goodness coming soon.

It can't be said often enough: many thanks to both brynna and blucougar57 for their excellent beta-reading and super-excellent encouragement. Thanks, guys, I owe you big.

_Tha gaol agam ort_ Scots Gaelic for "I love you".

Pentonville large prison in London.

_London, England. _

_House of Jack and Tanya Simmons-McAllister._

_The morning after the end of "Bulletproof Armour"._

The sound of thumping feet outside her room roused her from her slumbers, and Eames reluctantly decided it was time to face the day. She still felt exceptionally tired, but suspected she would need to be awake for a day or so before her body was ready to sleep again. That being the case, she was curious as to what was going on outside. She pulled on a dressing gown, opened the door, and was nearly knocked over by Tanya, who was charging down the stairs in pursuit of her husband. Peering over the stair bannister to the ground floor, she could hear their voices in the hallway.

"Take care of yourself." Tanya's voice was light, but with a definite undercurrent of worry.

"I'll be fine. Remember, if I'm not back by tonight…"

"You will be. You will be back if I have to personally go in there and beat the daylights out of them until they give you up."

A soft male chuckle echoed up the stairs. "I _would_ like to see that. See you later. _Tha gaol agam ort_".

The front door opened and closed, and a few seconds later she heard a car pulling away from the outside of the house. She padded down the stairs, and found Tanya staring out of one of the kitchen windows. She didn't look round, but Eames sensed she had heard the footsteps and was aware of her presence.

"Good morning."

"Morning to you, too. You hungry? There's food in the cupboards, help yourself." Tanya continued to stare out of the window, evidently doing some deep thinking. Eames shrugged and applied herself to foraging for breakfast. Having located cereal, milk, juice, bread and, most importantly, coffee, she settled herself at the table to eat. _Five days ago, we were sitting here eating pizza and planning a covert operation to catch a killer_, she mused, and smiled wryly. So much had happened since then, including, apparently, her partner's reunion with his lost love.

That reminded her. "Have you seen either Sienna or Bobby?"

Tanya finally turned to face her, and chuckled, a smile lightening her face, highlighting how grim her expression had been before. "Yup. Still up on the roof." She chuckled and her hand dropped to her belly. "Must be something in the air up there."

"Do you want some toast?"

"Not really hungry… guess I should eat, though." Tanya dropped into the seat facing her and resuming staring into space, whilst munching a piece of toast with little enthusiasm. "Did you clean up last night?"

"Um, yeah."

"Must have been a lot of work doing it on your own. Thanks."

She tried not to blush. "You're welcome."

Tanya continued to stare into space in a worrying manner. Eames decided to confront the situation head-on, as was her preferred way of doing things. "Where's Jack?"

Tanya turned to face her, and Eames had a sudden feeling of foreboding as the other woman's troubled dark eyes met hers. "At Thames House."

"I'm sorry?"

"MI5's headquarters; where we were earlier. They called for him a few minutes ago."

A realisation that had been nagging on the edges of her thoughts suddenly forced its way into the forefront of her mind. People employed by the security services were not even supposed to tell their own families who they worked for. That Jack and Tanya knew what Davenport's real occupation was had an interesting implication. She decided to test it.

"So how long have you and Jack worked for them?"

Tanya did not break eye contact, and her glower became slightly more ferocious for a second, then relaxed with a _what the hell_ sigh. "Jack, since he and Drew used to live in the same house… about ten years now. As for me, well, Drew didn't formally tell me until Jack and I got together, but I knew, it was kind of an open secret." She grinned briefly. "He's the closest I've got to family, so it was hard to hide. Besides, Jack and I are pretty useful to Five. We don't officially work for them – not on the payroll or anything – we're just registered as Drew's associates. Kind of a freelance thing. As and when Drew comes up with something he needs us for."

Eames wondered privately if that explained Jack's success as a journalist. Not all of it, obviously, but for someone trying to break into the profession in their mid-twenties, MI5's assistance had presumably been very helpful. _It must be interesting for him trying to square working for them with a commitment to truth and justice…_ She mentally shrugged; not really her concern.

"So what now?" she wondered aloud.

"Now? Nothing I can do about Jack, but I'm off to the hospital to see how Drew's doing. Wanna come? I could use the moral support."

Eames considered saying _Shouldn't you be resting?_, then remembered who she'd be saying it to and decided not to bother. "What about those two?" She jerked a thumb upstairs.

Tanya grinned an evil grin. "Still shagging, as far as I know. I'll leave a note, I think we should leave them to it." She sighed again. "I'll miss her, I really will. So it goes." Her expression suddenly changed. "Excuse me."

She rushed off in the direction of the bathroom. Eames tried not to overhear, but couldn't help picking up the sounds of retching. Tanya re-emerged ten minutes later, wiping her mouth. "I really, really, fucking _hate_ morning sickness. Worst thing is, it comes and goes. I feel fine, then half an hour later I'm chucking up again."

"You want me to drive?" She said it on auto-pilot, then remembered where she was.

"Alex, believe me, even if you've driven a manual car on the left-hand side of the road before, you don't wanna be trying to remember how to do it in London. Most _British_ people won't drive round here."

"Taxi?"

Tanya smiled and reached for the phone. "No need."

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Now clad in jeans and T-shirt, Eames opened it to find a familiar figure looming over her; a young man of about twenty, with long reddish hair in a scruffy ponytail, wearing jeans and a battered leather jacket.

"Hiya, Tanya about? Nice to see you." Duncan Ampirelli ambled in with a friendly grin and a wave, and she was struck again by how, like Bobby and Tanya, he seemed to be built to a slightly larger scale than other human beings. Oh well, she was used to being dwarfed by people around her. "Ampirelli's Taxi to the rescue!"

"Thanks, Amp, you're a lifesaver." Tanya slung a small backpack over her shoulder, and fished out a note. "Here, ten quid for the petrol."

"Cheers." He pocketed the note. "Wow, you got this lot cleared up fast, I was gonna say last night, I don't mind clearing up, I owe you big time and all that."

"Alex here has secret magic cleaning powers."

"Really? Must come in handy. Are we off?"

"Yes. To St Vincent's Hospital, and step on it."

"Anyone I know? Hang on, yeah, Drew, weren't you saying last night, something fell on him on Saturday?"

"Yes, he's got a broken arm, they wanted to keep him in for observation."

"Is it really bad?"

"I'll tell him you asked, he'll be touched." Tanya stopped grinning. "They were pretty sure he'd live when I was last there, and they'd have told me if… anything had changed." Tanya's face darkened. "Let's go, please."

As they drove to the hospital, Amp remarked: "Did you know there's someone following us?"

_Interesting that he noticed that, but then I guess being involved in delivering pirate DVDs teaches you to look out for that sort of thing,_ Eames mused

"Yes. Don't worry about it and don't think about it," Tanya commanded.

Amp shrugged and kept driving. "Good party last night, eh? Oh yeah, and congrats again. How long?"

Tanya smiled softly. "About six and a half months to go."

"Do you know what it is yet?"

"They can't scan for that yet, but I think it's a girl."

"Aw, that'll be nice. Mind you, she might grow up like you, and then that would be scary." Amp grinned at them in the rear-view mirror. "Bet Jack's happy. Where is he, anyway?"

"Had to go into work."

"Oh yeah, course. Bet he must be dead busy right now what with the stadium and that." Amp whistled. "Lucky escape there, eh?"

"Not for Drew it wasn't."

"Yeah." Amp pulled a face, possibly thinking that he wasn't all that troubled by the thought of someone who had been blackmailing him suffering a broken arm.

…_A sudden image flashed before her eyes, broken ends of bone jutting from red torn flesh and warm blood spilling over her, her and Tanya and twoBritish cops as they tried to stop the bleeding from Davenport's shattered arm, with the sniper's corpse grotesquely splayed over the seats near them whilst Davenport's screams echoed around the stand, until he suddenly went quiet, and Eames felt a surge of panic, knowing that meant he had lost consciousness from the blood loss, and they had to stop the bleeding now, now or it would be too late, and then behind them there were footsteps, and the sudden, welcome voice of help, "Paramedics, let us through!", and she jumped away from the spy's unconscious body and nearly lost her balance, slipping in his blood and realising she was covered in it, catching an involuntary glimpse of his face, grey and pallid, eyes closed, head lolling on his neck like a broken mannequin… _

She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, forcing the flashback away. If Davenport was dead or seriously ill, they would surely have been told. _Or would we?_ she thought suddenly. Davenport's injuries had seemed to her to be severe yet treatable, but gunshot wounds were always dangerous, and he might have sustained internal damage when he was knocked backwards onto the wreckage of the collapsed stand. Regardless of how close Davenport and Tanya were, Davenport's next of kin was his partner, Michael Jones, who probably wouldn't feel up to making phone calls if anything had happened to his lover, and she couldn't somehow see MI5 bothering to tell them.

She took a deep breath, trying not to let her thoughts show on her face, and willed Amp to drive faster.

They arrived ten minutes later. Amp parked in a dropping-off space, and out of the corner of her eye, Eames could see the nondescript blue estate car that had been carefully trailing behind them during the drive there pulling into a space a short distance away. She tried not to look at it directly, but out of the corner of her eye she could see someone inside making a call on what looked like a cellphone, but probably wasn't.

"D'you want me to wait for you?"

"Would you mind? Thanks, Amp, you're a star."

"I know, I'm brilliant me, aren't I? I'll be in the café, give us a ring if you need me."

"I owe you for this."

He shook his head, red ponytail swishing about his face, and smiled. "I owe you, remember? Good character witness and all that? You stopped me going to Pentonville, I can manage to sit in a café for a bit for you."

"Thanks." Tanya and Eames turned away and began to navigate the corridors.

"Who were the guys in the blue car, do you know?" Eames muttered under her breath.

"MI5. Watching the house in case someone broke in, or we tried to make a break for it. They'll be watching Drew, too."

"Do you know where he is?"

Tanya shook her head. "No, but I figure if we go up to where they were operating they'll probably know there."

An idea occurred to Eames. "Couldn't you call his partner?"

Tanya shrugged. "I did, but he's not answering. Maybe he's asleep."

They hurried through the hospital corridors, which had the same reek of antiseptic familiar to Eames from far too many visits to the bedsides of various victims and suspects, albeit with a faint British undercurrent of tea and biscuits. Tanya led the way, pausing occasionally to consult the signs and accost passing hospital staff. Eventually they arrived at a familiar-looking section of the hospital, and stopped outside a ward labelled "Intensive Care Unit".

The ward doors were closed with a magnetic lock, with a gimlet-eyed receptionist seated at the entrance. Eames wished briefly and sincerely that she could wave her badge and get them through. Damn, she wished she was back in New York. This wasn't her country or her city, and she was tired of not being a cop. Getting an insight into the life of an ordinary citizen was fine, but not really what you needed to be doing if you were swept up in terrorist plots and attempted mass murder.

"We're here to see… a friend of mine."

"What's his name?"

Tanya paused, and Eames realised she was trying to work out if Davenport would be in the hospital under his own name. "Andrew Davenport; he might be down as Drew."

The receptionist's expression flickered for a second. "Sorry, there's no-one here by that name."

"Look again."

The receptionist made a show of looking, then shook her head. Eames, reading the reflection from the computer screen in the glass behind the receptionist's desk, realised she probably wasn't lying; she could see nothing in the list onscreen that looked remotely like Davenport's name. "I'm very sorry, I'm afraid he's not here. You could try Family Services, downstairs, four floors down and turn left, then right, at the end of the stairs."

Tanya looked inclined to argue some more. Eames smiled brightly at the receptionist and replied: "Thanks! We'll do that!", then caught hold of Tanya's arm. For a minute she had the nasty impression that the other woman wasn't going to budge, but eventually she moved and they walked away together. As soon as they were round the corner, Tanya stopped.

"Well?" Her expression was challenging.

Eames spread her hands. "I couldn't see his name there. We don't know what name he's under, whether they're concealing how he was injured, whether he's even still here… or where those guys who were following us are."

"He will be here, somewhere. Five always use St Vincent's if theirs get injured." Tanya made a gesture of frustration, then rubbed her face. "Should have brought SiSi with us… she's really good at this stuff. Can charm the birds out of the trees, but can also wield the stick as well as the carrot."

That didn't quite square with the keen but slightly nervous young woman Eames had known two years ago, but people changed. Which was going to be interesting for Bobby. Suddenly, Tanya caught her arm and dragged her across to a nearby doorway, then pushed her through it. They entered a small room with an empty bed; the sheets were stripped and it was obviously awaiting the arrival of the cleaners.

"What is it?"

Tanya's voice was low, urgent. "Watch." They peered through the glass. In the corridor they had been standing it, a slim woman with blonde hair, wearing a black jacket and trousers, stalked past them, in deep conversation with a tall man wearing a surgeon's scrubs. A short Chinese woman with a white coat and a clipboard hurried beside them, taking long steps to keep up with the surgeon's strides.

"I know her," Tanya murmured. "She works for Five."

"You think if we follow her, we'll find Davenport?"

"Worth a try."

Instinctively, they waited until they heard the footsteps retreat and turn the corner, then both women slipped out, creeping carefully along the corridor until they reached the junction, then waited again until the group had turned the corner. It occurred to Eames that somebody in a CCTV control room somewhere was quite possibly wondering what was going on, and the ridiculousness of the situation hit her. As they padded down the corridor in pursuit, she whispered: "Can't we just go and ask them?"

"You can if you like, I can't. I can't stand the bitch."

"You've met before?"

"What gave it away?"

Eames privately agreed that they should have brought Sienna. Tanya apparently inclined less towards the carrot and stick approach, and more towards "if you break the stick, hit them with the carrot". She herself was comfortable with either way of doing things, but unlike Sienna, who as an Interpol officer might be able to pull some strings, she had nothing to offer MI5 that they didn't already know. She was acutely and uncomfortably aware that without Davenport around to explain things and deal with MI5's senior staff, they had no official contact with the British security services, no-one who would go to bat on their behalf. (How on earth they were going to explain all of this to Deakins was a problem she was trying not to think about until later.)

As they rounded the corridor, they emerged into a wide hallway with several people milling around, and Tanya snarled with frustration; the people they had been following were nowhere to be seen. Eames caught sight of a reception desk and was struck with inspiration.

"Excuse me, can you help us?" She favoured the receptionist with her most appealing "busy soccer-mom" smile.

The receptionist smiled back brightly. "I'll do my best."

"We were trying to catch up with the doctor who just came through here; he's treating my friend's brother and we just caught sight of him and his assistant in front of us, but we didn't manage to catch up in time…"

"Oh, you mean Dr House? He'll be upstairs in the ICU Blue ward, only I'm not sure if he'll be able to speak to you…"

"Thanks! That's really helpful!" She smiled a huge smile of gratitude as she and Tanya wheeled off towards the stairs.

The upstairs floor, helpfully labelled "ICU Blue Ward" was much quieter, and Eames guessed by the number of doors on either side that it was devoted to private rooms. Which made sense, she thought hopefully, if MI5 wanted Davenport recuperating somewhere where they could control who got in to see him. _Then again, that logically implies that somewhere around here will be security and locked doors_…

They turned the corner and stopped. Almost directly in front of them was a set of double doors, which appeared to be shut and firmly locked. And, seated in front of the doors, was the blonde woman who had been accompanying the tall doctor. She was pretending to read a magazine, but Eames could spot someone doing surveillance a mile off. As they watched, she rose gracefully to her feet, her expression carefully blank.

"Where's Drew?" Tanya's voice was not quite a yell, but Eames could detect the strain in it. _She really is worried_.

"He's well." The woman's voice was an odd mixture of boredom and antipathy. Apparently the dislike was mutual. As she took up a position blocking the door, her long blond hair fell in wings on either side of her face, giving her a slightly wolfish appearance. She looked vaguely familiar, Eames thought, feeling the adrenaline beginning to rise, but controlling it, not letting it show in her appearance.

She was suddenly and acutely aware of the missing weight of her gun and her badge.

Beside her, Tanya took a step forward, her eyes narrowed nearly to slits. "Don't give me that. His arm was in pieces. He is not well in any way, shape or form, and I want to see him. Now."

"I'm afraid you can't; it's family and next of kin only." The MI5 woman's cool, superior voice was infuriating. If she was trying to defuse the situation by being the voice of sweet reason, she was failing drastically, Eames thought. Tanya's rage was visibly building. Eames had once taken a police self-defence course on how to defend yourself against being attacked by dogs. At one point, the instructor had brought in a Rottweiler, a trained guard dog, and even hardened cops had instinctively shrunk back at the waves of menace rolling off the beast. She was beginning to get the same sensation from Tanya, and the other woman's words, _I used to kill people for a living_, echoed unpleasantly in her head.

"I _am_ his family." Tanya's voice had gone from angry to snarling, her body already beginning to adopt a "ready to attack" position.

"Unfortunately not, and you're no longer his next of kin." The blonde MI5 agent smiled sweetly, and Eames realised the resemblance was not so much in her face, as her attitude; she had all of the worst aspects of Davenport's smug I-know-better-than-you approach to life. She was half-tempted to wonder flippantly if MI5 had a giant mould in the basement turning out cynical blonds, then forgot the thought, seeing Tanya flinch as though the other woman had slapped her.

"Bullshit. I'm his next of kin, I always have been. Now open that fucking door."

"I can't."

"And again, bullshit. Someone could get into that room through the window, so you have the combination to that door in case someone attacks Drew. Now let me the fuck through."

"No." The woman shook her head, and adopted a position in front of the door, seemingly unfazed by the fact that Tanya outweighed her by at least forty pounds. She and Tanya were each a hairsbreadth away from adopting defensive postures, their hands twitching very slightly. The tension in their muscles indicated only too clearly that each would happily beat the daylights out of the other given the slightest provocation. Eames reflected dismally that whilst she would have matched herself against either one of them, taking on two trained fighters, one of whom was a lot bigger than her _and pregnant, Jesus_, was a recipe for disaster. _Dammit, I wish Bobby was here_. Aside from the fact they were better together than apart, both Bobby's ability to manipulate people's minds and his six-foot tall, 250-pounds-plus ex-solider's frame would have been useful right now.

She strode forward, placing herself between the two women, and summoned every ounce of her authority. "Okay, the two of you need to stop this, now…"

The blonde interrupted her. "Or you'll do what? Hit us with your badge? This isn't New York." She smiled the same poisonous smile, then turned her attention back to Tanya, dismissing Eames completely.

Eames turned to face Tanya, forcing herself to make eye contact with the other woman's near-murderous gaze. She was not easily intimidated, but Tanya's eyes held little other than the promise of imminent violence, and Eames suspected that whilst Tanya might prefer not to injure her, she would have no qualms whatsoever about physically shifting her out of the way before attacking the MI5 agent. She really did _not_ want to fight a pregnant woman.

Without taking her eyes off the MI5 agent, Tanya growled. "Hate to say it, but the bitch has a point. This isn't your fight, Alex."

"It doesn't have to be a fight."

"It will be in three seconds if this bitch doesn't get out of my way."

Eames sensed instinctively that calling on her authority would not work. Instead, she projected into her voice all the kinship she'd felt with the other woman, the bond they'd forged over a shared fight for survival in the wreckage of the City of London stadium and an in-depth female bonding session over the difficulties of being pregnant in a physical line of work.

"Give _me_ three minutes." She kept her eyes steady. "Back off, give me three minutes, and I'll get this door open."

For a few awful seconds, Tanya's eyes remained violent, her intense stare fixed on Eames. Then, almost imperceptibly, her muscles relaxed, just slightly, and her hands dropped to her side.

"Okay, Alex. Three minutes it is." Tanya nodded her head once, then backed up a few paces. Behind Eames, the MI5 woman also stepped back a pace, but didn't move from in front of the door.

Eames took a deep breath, then strode confidently forward, praying for time.

She knew what she had to do and who she had to find.

Three minutes, she thought. Two minutes, fifty-nine seconds.

_I can do this._

_Please, God, let me do this. _


	5. Up on the Roof

Author's Note: Hey, Tanya has a story to tell, too! Sienna & Bobby will be the focus of the next chapter, I promise.

For those trying to keep track of the chronology here, I should perhaps mention that the action here takes place on the same day as the events described in the last chapter, but earlier in the morning (i.e. Alex was still asleep).

_House of Tanya and Jack Simmons-McAllister, London, England. _

_Very early in the morning of the day after "Bulletproof Armour"._

It's 4.30am, which is early even for me, but I'm wide awake, so now is a great time to get up. I got a lot to do.

Jack, bless him, is sound asleep. I love him for this. He's not pretending to be asleep, he's not drowsy, he's not asking if he can come with me, he is really and genuinely ASLEEP. Thank God. Early morning has always been my time, ever since I figured out as a kid that getting up before everyone else was the one sure way I was guaranteed to be able to do whatever I wanted.

Reminds me, I have to tell my Mum some time about this. Not looking forward to that. She thinks she and my useless stepdad can mess up my kid's life like they did mine, they have another think coming. Still, gonna be fun watching my precious sister's face when she realises I beat her in the race to produce the first grandchild.

Now, I got a whole lot of things to do, and I'm trying to decide which one comes first, when my guts take the decision for me and I'm spending the next five minutes in the toilet. Ah, sod it. At least the sickness is over with quickly. Always has been for me. SiSi usually knows when she's had enough to drink 'cause she starts feeling sick. I never get that, before or after. I'm okay, suddenly I feel sick, suddenly I AM sick, suddenly it's all over, thank God.

SiSi, priority number one!

I think back, but I don't remember hearing footsteps last night, neither big nor small. I am pretty sure that she and the big guy spent the entire damn night up there, which is great. I look in at Jack, who is snoring gently in bed, and grin. I hope that SiSi is feeling this happy right now, but I couldn't swear to it. I was really tired last night, and since it was my birthday – and I'm, well, pregnant – I decided it should be about me, and we threw everyone out early and went straight to bed.

So, I gotta go check on her just in case, 'cause if things did not work out for her last night I need to go find her before she decides daytime drinking is the way to fix a broken heart. (It is, but not alone, that way lies puking and possible blackouts in bad places.)

So, I pad back in, and get my rooftop trousers, plus my good boots and a strong bra and black jumper. Pause as I'm pulling on the jumper and securing the trouser fastening carefully, and look down. My hand drops down and cups _her_, carefully.

_You okay in there, kid? _I think, a little nervously, which is stupid. I mean, this kid's a real survivor. So far she's made it through several weeks' intensive training, one martial arts competition (nothing too bad though, only semi-contact), one all-in brawl with a bunch of drunk footie hooligans, close encounter with a sniper plus an accidental vodka or three two weeks back, before I started to suspect. Just lucky I had a competition a few weeks ago, I guess. Training meant I wasn't drinking or going out much, and when I did go out a bit later on after I started to suspect, it wasn't a heavy session, so I just ordered diet Coke and pretended it had vodka in.

Ye gods, another seven months without drinking. _Hope you appreciate everything I'm giving up for you, kiddo_.

I have this sense that somewhere inside me, a little voice is muttering _Yeah, well, this is just the start_.

Once again, how great a husband is Jack? Here I was doing all this worrying about that last one I lost, wondering when the hormones were going to be out of my system after I came off the jab, and he gets me pregnant first time. Know when it happened too. We took the bike out to that little place in the woods, which is just perfect since it's where we first got together.

I go down to the kitchen, walking nice and quiet so as not to wake up Alex, who is asleep around here somewhere, and pick up some bread rolls, make a flask of coffee. I need an excuse to go up to the roof.

I grin. I feel fantastic all of a sudden. This baby is _Jack's_ baby, so it is going to be just fine inside me. I already feel it. I have a real sense I can talk to her, which I never did the last time, but then… I asked at the hospital and they said a lot of miscarriages are just natural selection in action. Bad genes; wouldn't have made it to full term. I have to be honest; wouldn't have made it to full term, full stop. I would not have got those three stripes on my sleeve if I'd stopped to have a kid.

And let's face it, back then I would've made a really crappy mother. I drank, shagged around and picked fights with anything that moved. (Yeah, obvious joke; I just stopped shagging around.) Now, though, I have Jack, and I have a life which doesn't involve me getting shot at, at least not too often. Our daughter's gonna be just fine.

Climb back up the stairs towards the first floor of the house, and pause to put the tray down and open the door to the roof garden.

I am sure it's a girl already. Drew once told me that all babies are girls up until around three months, which is why men have nipples, so technically of course she's a girl, but I think she's going to stay one anyway, which is good, because Jack's family title goes through the male line, and I refuse to move to Scotland and herd sheep. His sister's kid can be the next Laird McAllister.

Enough with the thinking, I need to get my arse up there and go check on Sleeping Beauty upstairs. I carefully prop the door to the roof open. Not that it is a major problem for me if someone locks it behind me… but it would be a bit inconvenient.

I think about the last few days as I'm going up… ah shit, Drew. Jesus God. Am I surprised that my oldest friend screwed over my newest friend? Nope. I have known Drew a long time, and the next thing on my list (after check on SiSi, check Alex is okay downstairs, and thank Jack properly for being such an excellent husband) is ensure that they are taking proper care of him. Drew, flat on his back and spaced out on drugs, is a really big target when you think how many people he's imprisoned, inconvenienced and just plain pissed off over the years. Gotta take care of him, too.

I'm near the top of the stairs now. It's just getting light outside, perfect conditions to be going and taking a look-see. I'm going up on all fours, balancing the tray on one hand. SiSi always said Goren had good senses, good hearing, came from being Army Intelligence. Can I see him being Army Intelligence? Yeah. They were always a bunch of weird buggers when I was in uniform, and I doubt the Yanks do things any differently. Going up on all fours means my weight's more evenly distributed and my footsteps are lighter. Harder for someone else to hear me, easier for me to hear what's going on up there. I don't pick up anything, which is good, in a way, don't want this guy thinking I'm a perve, I'm just concerned.

I pause just before I emerge, and finish the thought I had earlier. I have had SiSi crying on my shoulder about not being with Goren more times than I can count, to the extent where I once told her that she was getting boring and would she please just go back to New York already and get on with it? She screamed back that she was fucking useless at choosing men and what the fuck did I know anyway?

Right on the second count, wrong on the first, because there was nothing off in her judgement. Drew deliberately manoeuvred her right into a situation where she'd fall for that useless waste of space John Durham. (I met a shedload like him in the Army, and I was never wrong about them; could spot the ones going bad a mile off.) And he did that by… well.

That's what gets me. This past two years, I really would've said Drew _changed_. He and I, we have always been there for each other, but I never knew him have any other friends. But these past two years, he and SiSi really seemed to hit it off. (Not like that. Drew only ever shags men and, lately, only Michael.) She told me herself, when we were all getting to know each other, that back when she was living in New York and they used to exchange information on the phone, he always asked how she was, how things were going, like he cared.

The hell he did. All he wanted was a good opportunity to drip a few more words in SiSi's ear about how Goren never saw her as more than a good fuck, how he'd been a bachelor too long, how the only woman in his life was his mum, how the age gap was a problem… I know all this, because SiSi brought it all up, every time she and I got drunk.

Still kicking myself about that. I'd really been listening, I'd have noticed how many times she said "It's like Drew said…". Yeeeahh. Guess in that respect I was as dumb as she was. Forgot that the fact that Drew's my friend doesn't mean he can't also be a manipulative little bastard.

(Even so, these things are not that simple. If I've learned one thing from being with Jack, it's that. Can't help thinking that Drew was bang on the nail about one thing; if Goren had given SiSi even a small chance to think that he and she would make it, she'd have told Drew to stuff his job and stayed over in the States to try and work things out.)

I admit, Goren is not what I was expecting. His partner, Alex Eames, is way more like the picture "New York cop" conjures up. Tough, determined, takes no shit from anyone. I like that in a woman.

But Goren… well, SiSi always said he was strange. Too smart for his own damn good. I mean, I get the attraction side of things… SiSi goes for the big guys, and they really don't come all that much bigger; he's bigger than I am, even. (Still bet I could take him, but it's not the done thing to beat the daylights out of your best friend's intended, even just out of curiosity). I'll bet before he put on those few extra pounds, he had women queuing round the fricken' block. Then again, I would also put money on the fact that when he hit forty-one and suddenly a young curvy redhead practically drags him into bed, that was just what a guy going through a mid-life crisis needed.

Ah, I'm being cynical. SiSi wanted to marry him; he must have good points… and he's obviously smitten with her.

I'm at the top of the stairs now. Poke my head out and take a good careful look across at the bed.

Okay, this isn't good. I'm seeing him, alright. Big broad back under the covers, facing away from me, looks to be dead asleep. But I am not seeing her.

Shit.

Right, need to be sure about this before I go running off calling SiSi and generally raising hell. Unfortunately, I can't get much closer to the bed without waking Goren, and whilst I have every right to prowl around my own damn roof, this calls for a little tact and diplomacy.

Fortunately there is a dead simple way to solve this. I rise to my feet, put the tray down and glance around and out at the street. Still too early for anyone to be up. Okay.

I reach up and grip the edge of the roof, when it occurs to me I maybe shouldn't be doing this, being pregnant and all. But the hell with it, this is a walk in the park for me. Not like that last time…

That time in the stadium was the only time in my life I didn't want to fight. I mean, I've run from fights before, ain't no shame in keeping yourself alive. But before…

…when I was backed into a corner, when it was me or them…

…I always fucking _loved_ that, because suddenly the world goes _clear_ and everything else goes away, just me, the other guy, and the knowledge that one of us won't walk away on our feet, and it won't be me.

But that time, then, then I would have run if I'd been able, to protect the kid. As it was, I was shit scared, and then it happened, the world went clear, and I knew we'd be alright, because I had the pipe and I was going to kill those drunken bastards if I had to, to keep the kid safe.

As luck would have it, I didn't have to, which is just as well. As it is, I'm kinda glad that someone somewhere in MI5 or the like has explained to them that they don't get the option of trying to sue me for assault. (Like to see that in court, I could wear a dress for once and look pregnant, the jury would like that.) Just as well for Constables Dean and Knowles, too. They're good lads, but they were a bit enthusiastic about subduing the buggers. Maybe I shouldn't have taught them that if you just shove your fingers into that little nerve spot on the collarbone, you can make your opponent's arm stop working for the next few days. Oh well, too late.

So I pull myself up onto the edge of the roof, planting my feet along the nice solid iron gutter along the top and fitting my fingers into the little cracks in the tiles. I don't really need to be cautious, I've done this so many times. Besides, one day the kid and I will do this for real, I'm going to teach her everything I know. If she wants it, anyhow. Jack and I are agreed, our kids can do whatever they damn well like with their lives. Not gonna force them to try to be someone they're not.

Still, for Jack's sake, I pull the kusarifundo – long thin chain with a hook on the end - out of my climbing kit, and throw it up and above, so it secures itself over the apex of the roof. (Yeah, real Batman stuff. But hey, if you believe the movies, Batman knew ninjutsu too, like me.) I have myself a nice solid rope to hang onto now, not that I need it, I'm only a few storeys up.

Ten seconds inching along the gutter and hanging on to the rope, and I'm along the edge of the roof to the house next door. This is the advantage of living in a terraced house; easy to scramble along the roofs if you need to. Next door has a upstairs garden, like ours, only Mrs Hamble is eighty-five and arthritic, so she has the door to the attic sealed with a padlock and no-one ever comes up here. (I know 'cause I did my getting to know the new neighbours thing when we moved in here. You should always check out who shares your living space.) No-one except me, anyway.

I drop down carefully into the roof garden next door, then snap the kusarifundo like a whip, dislodging the hook, then flip it off the roof and let it slither down the tiles back to my hand. From here, if I just stand on this old box here, I can see right across into my own roof garden next door. (Which we will have to do something about, maybe put screens up around ours, when Mrs Hamble pops her clogs and her family sells the house. I'm not shy, but Jack and I spend a lot of time up there, and I'm too old to be performing for an audience.)

Now, if I just lean over a bit, I can see across to the other side of the bed…

…aw, damn, look at that. I couldn't see SiSi before because she was under the covers and hidden behind Goren. He really is fricken' huge; she must have thought she'd hit the jackpot when she pulled him. They're curled up like two spoons, and I can just see a little bit of red hair on the pillow; rest of her's under the bedclothes with his arm over her. Keeping her safe.

Ah… can't help grinning. I'm thrilled for her. Real sorry to be losing her, though. She's going to be on that plane back to New York in about three minutes. Kind of a shame; the kid is going to have to get to know her Auntie SiSi long-distance.

Then again, maybe some day there'll be tiny little red-headed SiSi's running around.

As I watch, Goren stirs and tugs the covers down a little. Yup, SiSi is definitely under there, and yup, they definitely spent the entire night shagging. I can just tell. He looks around (I duck down) and spots the tray, then gets up and gets it, and I politely avert my eyes, since I am happy to take SiSi's word for it that everything there is in proportion.

She's sitting up, now. Awake and happy, I can hear her voice: "Oh wow, food, I'm really hungry, thanks…" You're welcome, kiddo. Goren settles back into bed besides her, and I can hear the sounds of food being eaten… and other things too, by the sounds of it.

Jesus, they were up here all night. Sounds like SiSi has the stamina of a rabbit. Him too, I guess. Okay, I don't need to see or hear any more. I do, however, need to get back into my house, which is kind of a problem since I can't go back the way I came…

This is going to take a little longer than I was expecting, but never mind. Hang tight, kid. Mummy just has to do some breaking and entering.


	6. Vodka and a Cold Evening

This chapter is rated M for adult content. Please read accordingly.

He paced up and down. In the same way that others might hum, or tap their fingers, when his mind was working frantically, he paced, always had done, reflexively, barely even aware of it.

_Did she HAVE to call me that?_

That had stung, and stung badly. Rationally, he knew she had regretted calling him a headfucker the minute she said it, and that whilst he hadn't exactly asked for it, he'd provoked her.

That was the hardest part for both of them. Sienna had – well – _grown up _was the only phrase he could think of for it, in the two years they had been apart. Patronising, he knew. But true. The potential he'd always seen in her seemed to have flowered. She held rank now. As one of the two heads of Interpol's International Fugitive Investigative Support Section in New York, she was responsible for a team of five intelligence analysts plus their support staff, dealing with cases across the city. Indeed, it had occurred to him more than once that if he were simply an ordinary detective, not part of Major Case, her rank would be superior to his. As it was… well, Major Case were the elite, always had been, but she was certainly his equal now, and she had the toughness to go with it.

He was, genuinely, impressed. She'd managed the most difficult trick of all, learning to harness her emotions. Some people in law enforcement, of course, never needed to; they had no empathy and no imagination, and consequently either never rose far, or went straight into management. Others became numb, cutting themselves off from their emotions, either through force of will or the more destructive path of drugs and alcohol. Occasionally you got those who still, impossibly, felt the same pain, every time they looked at a murder or rape victim, but still kept going, bleeding inside, on and on and on. SVU tended to get most of those.

But the very best, in his opinion, were the ones who still felt, but who had learned to control it. Who used their emotions, who never lost sight of the fact that the broken bodies and minds they saw week in and week out were human, but who took that and turned it into determination and insight. Like him, and like Eames.

Sienna had become that, he thought. Ironically, her particular gift was for reading not victims, or witnesses, or suspects, but law enforcement personnel and lawyers. _Well_, he thought wryly, _she has a tame specimen at home to practise on nearly every night_. Sienna could chair a meeting of ten different people and sense what each of them was thinking, then bring that together in her head and propose a way forward that would somehow make sense to all the participants.

Oh, she wasn't infallible, not by a long shot, not yet. Captains James Deakins and Tim Whitefield could rest easy for some time. It would be a while before his love had the experience to go for the very top – _especially if she takes a career break to have babies_, he thought, a little uneasily – but it was certainly a possibility.

Part of the problem they were now facing was the fact that you could not do that and still retain the same youth, almost innocence, that had been part of her attraction for him in the first place. Sienna had been by no means stupid or naïve when he first met her, but she had still been young, still inexperienced, and very willing to follow his lead, acknowledge his superior knowledge of the world and of human nature. He still remembered fondly how young she had made him feel, how refreshing it had been to be around someone very smart, very well-travelled, but who wasn't jaded, not worn down or made cynical by the gruelling aspects of working for the NYPD. Who looked at the world through fresh eyes, still capable of being surprised.

That had gone for good. Sienna was no cynic, and she still retained her optimistic view of human nature, but she was no longer surprised or saddened by its worst aspects. Unfortunately, he hadn't been around whilst she was developing that more mature mindset, and frequently it seemed as though his just being there was enough to remind of the contrast between her as she had been, and her as she was now, and some of the more painful experiences that had contributed to that.

_Fuck you, Davenport_, he thought bitterly. The worst of it was, he recognised only too well the technique Davenport had used. The skilful, almost gentle, manipulation of someone, not into believing a falsehood, not an outright lie, but just a _possible_ interpretation of the facts. Just enough to make them do what you wanted, whether it was testifying against a loved one, or agreeing to entrap their father, _or leaving the man they loved because you persuaded them that a few problems they might have managed to solve given time were insurmountable obstacles, then getting them shot_ – well. How often had he himself done that sort of thing, and all in the interests of the greater good?

He dropped heavily into the chair, and stared almost blindly at the door to Sienna's bedroom. He was no stranger to its interior, but now he was genuinely unsure whether it would be better for her if he went in, or whether he should stay out here and wait for her invitation.

_She doesn't need me any more_…_ ah shit, Goren, stop pitying yourself_. But it was true. Sienna didn't need him to be her strong, loving, loyal Bobby anymore, her rock. She was her own rock. She had managed just fine without him for two years, and could do so again.

She had changed so much… Unbidden, an old memory came back to him. Nearly three years ago now….

…He still remembered walking along the sidewalk towards his – their – apartment, high on the conclusion of a successful case. There was no feeling on earth quite like it, he thought. He could dress it up with all kinds of words, describe it as being for the good of the city, a vocation, a public service, whatever you liked to call it… but he knew this feeling intimately, and if he was being honest, it was more basic than any of that. It was the little voice, gleefully shouting in the back of his head when he looked into the perp's eyes at the exact moment they realised, they'd convicted themselves out of their own mouths, they were going DOWN….

…_I'm smarter than you are, and I WIN. _

Never, ever, got old. Although there were some cases, mainly ones where abuse was involved, where he never felt that. Then, all he and Eames felt was sadness and regret. But this had been one of those cases where the perp had been a real bastard, and putting him away had the deeply fulfilling satisfaction of a job well done. Eames had gone off with her new boyfriend to celebrate with a round or two of margaritas, and he had caught the subway with an anticipatory grin.

He was feeling high, on top of the world, and it was sharpening his appetite. Sienna was in his apartment, and he knew from an old friend in SVU, where she'd been temporarily seconded, that she'd finished work an hour before he did. By his reckoning that would give her just enough time to slip out of her suit, and into something tight and soft, maybe that little dark blue velvet dress with the short skirt that showed off that lovely hourglass figure of hers.

Damn, but this was good. Knowing he had someone at home, waiting for him. He'd always wondered a little at how people _managed_, having another person around, who wanted to talk to you when you were tired, or eat food you didn't like, or tidy up when you were worn out and wanted to rest… but it was surprisingly easy. Sienna and he fit just fine into the same space, she was so easy to live with. Well, she had spent a lot of her life travelling. In fact, she had never lived on her own, but always with friends or in a shared house. She was accustomed to fitting into someone else's routine.

And the sex… He loved that. He would be genuinely happy to spend time with Sienna regardless of whether or not they were sleeping together, she was a fascinating person. He liked to think that she realised that… _well, of course she did_, he thought, if she thought for one instant that sex was all he was after, she would leave in about three seconds. But, amazingly, the attraction wasn't fading. They didn't quite have the same urgency, the same "bed – NOW" hunger that had characterised their earlier encounters, but it was deeply enjoyable to know that, no matter how crappy his day got, there was someone at home waiting for him. Someone who knew him, knew exactly what he liked and how to do it.

They were truly blessed in that respect, he thought, one of those rare matches where what each of them liked most during sex was what the other genuinely delighted in doing. Sienna wasn't the most experienced, perhaps not even the most skilful, he'd ever had, but she had one thing no-one else had had for a very long time. She wanted to be in bed with him because he was himself, Bobby Goren, and she wanted to make him happy.

Perversely, he could almost wish she'd be a little less selfless, a little more self-confident, taking what she wanted without always asking his permission, carefully checking to see that he was enjoying it too. But then, she was younger than he, and women often didn't have that sort of sexual confidence until they got older. Perhaps that would come with time.

He allowed himself a small fantasy of Sienna greeting him, her returning warrior, at the door, those beautiful green eyes sparkling, and he would pick her up, barely pausing to kick the door shut behind him, and take her right there and then against the wall. He could imagine her now; squealing "Bobby!", wriggling a little against him, letting him pin her wrists whilst his mouth possessed hers… and secretly loving every minute, because there were few things his Sienna liked more than him dominant, if they were both in the right mood, and he certainly was. He picked up his pace, and tried not to think about that too much. _Focus, _Goren! He made it to the apartment door, barely remembering to do his usual routine checks to be certain that no-one was lying in wait.

Hmm, that was odd. Sienna was nowhere to be seen or heard, but her shoes were beside the door. Where was she? He couldn't hear movement anywhere within the apartment. Maybe she'd gone out. He hoped not. He was feeling decidedly horny and no longer had any damn reason to hide it.

"Sienna, where are you?" He called out almost playfully, teasingly, a seductive tone he saved for her alone and which had, in the past, persuaded her that a bathroom in One Police Plaza was a fine place for the two of them to be getting it on, persuaded her out of her clothes and into his lap, and onto…

"_mmm_inhere…"

_Oh shit_. Her quavering voice through the bedroom door had the effect of a bucket of cold water chucked over his libido. That was the rough voice of someone who had been crying for a long time, probably with a good couple (or more) of glasses of vodka thrown in.

He paused for a minute to lock the door securely and divest himself of his shoes, coat and briefcase. Then paused for another minute, took a deep breath and let it out slowly whilst thinking, _relax, go down, get out of that frame of mind_. Walking in there with a hard-on would _not_ help her in any way, shape or form.

It wasn't perfect – the hormones were still racing round his system – but it would do. Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he carefully pushed aside the door and walked in.

_Oh, shit_. Sienna was sprawled on the bed. She looked as though she'd simply flopped straight down onto it, collapsing into a heap, not even bothering to take off her earrings or make-up. Her briefcase had simply been abandoned, which was utterly unlike her usual methodical approach of going through it at the end of the day, putting everything in its rightful place. She hadn't even bothered to turn the light on, and he almost had to squint to see her through the gloom of a miserable second week of January, blue murky light making the room look dead and cold. An empty glass with lipstick stains stood on the bedside table beside a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose. Her suit was rumpled, her hair askew, and her _face_…

His heart wrenched to see her face. She looked utterly broken-hearted, and at the same time vaguely sick, as though someone had forced her to see horror after horror, long past her tolerance, her limit, shoving those images into her mind. He suddenly remembered with great clarity exactly what his friend in SVU had said: "You know that bust they had last week, the snuff movie ring? Buncha sex traffickers with a nasty little sideline."

Not actual snuff, of course – that was an urban legend and besides, the bodies were hard to hide – but only the deaths in those movies had been faked. The rest of it, the violence, rapes, mutilations, that had all been real. Goren had heard about it on the grapevine, and even hardened cops, even cops who he knew for a fact were chauvinist pigs, had still been sickened by the details.

"…your girlfriend's been assigned to help the SVU guys. They want her to translate some of the phone calls they tapped, see if they can match the voices with what happened to those girls in the tapes, get convictions for assault and rape…"

_Jesus, Goren_. He was angry at himself, now. How could he not have remembered? Not have realised that she would be like this afterwards? He hastened over to the bed, then stopped as Sienna started upwards, looking terrified, then untensed as she saw it was him.

_Oh God_. She wasn't even smiling. Normally, Sienna smiled when she saw him. He was her rock, her source of comfort. The knowledge of his – _say it, Goren _– his love for her was enough to make her happy.

Now, she looked as though she didn't care anymore. Her face was ugly and blotchy with crying and alcohol.

"Sienna…" He suddenly had no idea what to say. "Was it… was it really bad?" _And I should know already, because I should have taken the time during my lunch hour to call you and find out, but no, I was too damn wrapped up in my own case, when I wasn't thinking about you pinned against the wall with your lips up against mine and your skirt up round your waist oh FUCK that's not a good line of thought. _

"Oh _Bobby_." Her voice, usually so sweet and controlled, was sandpaper-rough and horrible to hear. She rolled over onto her back, loose-limbed, not even looking at him, still seeing the horrors of her day's work.

_She NEEDS you, idiot_. Gingerly, he perched on the bed and tried to pick her up. She was deadweight in his arms, heavy and awkward, like a corpse. He managed to pull her into his embrace, stroking her back. Her muscles tensed defensively at first, then she flopped forward onto him and began to sob brokenly onto his shoulder.

"Oh God… it was awful… how can they do it?" She asked him, but didn't wait for an answer, wouldn't have heard it through her sobs.

"Uh… well… SVU are like that… they have to be," he stammered, almost babbling. Of course. He could picture the scene now. Sienna in her usual suit, sleek with a faint hint of glamour, pantyhose and heels showing off her legs. Nothing too bold, too revealing, but among the hardened cops of SVU she would have stood out a mile, like a Dalmatian sauntering into a pack of wolves.

Sienna, on course for promotion, desperate to prove she was tough enough and had what it took. Refusing to let herself show weakness in front of the SVU team. He knew them and they were good cops, but utterly focussed on their jobs. Even if Benson and Stabler had noticed Sienna was distressed by what they were asking her to do, they would probably have disregarded it, being, quite rightly, single-mindedly determined to get the convictions and get the bastards off the streets and into Riker's.

"I know… they're not hard… not uncaring… they have to be like that… but Jesus God, Bobby, I couldn't even _look_ at some of those images without wanting to be sick… and there were so many pictures… and they went on and on, hardly a break… and I had to keep saying it… saying the words out loud, so they could identify who did what…" Her voice cracked again, and she burst into a fresh wave of tears.

_Oh, God, what do I do now_? he thought frantically, instinctively rocking backwards and forwards as Sienna continued to sob brokenly onto his shoulder. He had no idea what to do; nothing in his adult life had prepared him for this. Well, he'd cared for his mom in the past, but that was different, that was a different kind of caring, the sort where you knew from the start that there was no possibility of what you did being enough to make things better, because nothing was going to do that short of a miracle cure, so you just did the best you could. But Sienna needed him, and…

…and she was still going to be there tomorrow. And next week. And he had to get it right, because unlike a vulnerable witness, easily manipulated and then forgotten, or a casual girlfriend, quickly soothed with a few kind words and packed off back home in the morning, she would remember how he'd handled this, later, when she was sober. She would think about it, and what it told her about him, and he would have to live with that.

_Just relax, focus on her_, he told himself. She was heavy in his arms, and he realised she must be tired. He carefully held up a glass of water to her lips. She drank it almost blindly, gulping it, and he realised that the crying and vodka had dehydrated her. "Do you want anything else to drink?"

For a nasty minute he thought she was going to say "Another vodka", which would be a very bad idea, but she murmured scratchily, "Some orange juice would be good."

_Fruit sugars and vitamin C, just what the doctor ordered_. "I'll get that. I'll be back in one second," he murmured, holding up a finger. She smiled weakly and flopped down onto the bed. He returned to find her curled in the foetal position, her suit still askew and rumpled, skirt hiked up slightly …_don't even think it, Goren_. He reached out to straighten her skirt, and she flinched and looked up at him, warily. He realised how he must appear to her, a huge solid male looming over her. Quickly, he set the glass down beside her on the table, crouching down.

She held out a hand to him, her eyes huge in her streaked face, wordless need emanating so strongly he needed no real skill to detect it. Quickly, he sat down on the bed, then realised that she wanted him to lie down beside her and hold her. Which was a problem. _Damnit, just go DOWN already_!

This was going to need some careful arranging. Carefully, he lay down beside her and tugged the covers over her, making sure that a fold of the duvet separated his groin from her. _I'm forty-two, I'm past the stage of life where this should be a problem, can't age just have ONE _benefit? Oh well. Sienna lay heavy in his arms, relaxing a little. Her sobs were slowing, now, as he continued to held her as gently as he could. Her warmth and softness in his arms were not helping, but he could ignore that for now. If needs be he'd take matters into his own hands… should maybe have done that before going in to comfort her, but jacking off whilst his girlfriend was lying there distressed would have been the ultimate in insensitivity.

Suddenly, she propped herself up on one arm, pulling free of his embrace and reaching out to the glass. She drained it in a single convulsive gulp, set it down with a faint smack on the table, then suddenly collapsed back down. Her arm caught the covers and pulled them tight over them at the same time as her body came down to lie against his, exactly as he had been hoping it _wouldn't. Oh, DAMN_.

"Oh!" Sienna suddenly jumped away at the contact of his still-hard erection, as if from a mild shock. She looked at him wide-eyed, stunned.

Frantically, he began to babble. "I'm sorry, I'm not turned on by you upset or anything, I was just thinking about you earlier and…"

She laid a finger on his lips and looked him straight in the eyes. There was something in her eyes, something needy and hungry and desperate. "Bobby? I think… I need this. I need someone to show me that not all men are bad."

_Oh my God, I'm not up to this_. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

She nodded, desperately, and wriggled in close. He could feel tension in every line, every muscle of her body, and knew he would hurt her if he wasn't careful, but also knew that refusing her would devastate her, that it wasn't even an option. "Okay then."

He gently guided her onto her side, and spooned up close behind her, no longer bothering to hide his erection. She was almost passive, unresisting, so unlike her usual energetically lustful self it was deeply worrying. He realised she would have to relax before they could do anything at all. Fortunately, he knew what to do.

Almost instinctively, he reached out and began to run one hand over her, stroking softly and rhythmically, like petting a cat. Sienna lay still, unmoving, but he could begin to feel the tension slowly seeping out of her muscles. Still he continued to stroke her, but stayed away from her breasts, her stomach, the most sensitive areas of her body, focussing on her side and her arm. Gently, he kissed along her neck and ears, not going near her lips. After all she'd been though, he thought, her body might be incapable of responding to him, and if so he didn't want her to feel molested.

Unexpectedly, she wriggled over and sat upright, and for a heart-stopping moment he thought she was going to leave their bed. His erection throbbed suddenly, inconveniently, as she suddenly and gracelessly shed her jacket and blouse, then undid her bra and peeled it off, revealing those magnificent breasts he loved so much, small nipples erect as the air brushed them. Almost as if she were undressing alone, almost oblivious to his gaze, she pulled off the rest of her clothes and faced him entirely naked.

"Take yours off too," she murmured determinedly, and reached for his shirt buttons. With gossamer lightness, he held her hands and looked her in the eye, wordlessly _asking are you sure you want this_?

"I want to be naked. Want to feel you."

_Okay, then_. He sat up and undid his shirt as she watched, almost distantly, but never once taking her eyes off him. Oddly, he was almost embarrassed as he undid his belt and peeled off his pants and briefs to reveal the extent of his arousal, long and hard against his belly. Normally, this was a treat for both of them. Sienna's joy at the sight of him aroused was often enough to get him fully hard, even before that wicked mouth and those relentless hands got to work, and he loved that. She was his female, his beautiful loving female, and she wanted him. She had selected _him_ as the best male around, her mate. She could have a younger man, a richer man, if she wanted, but no. She wanted him, him and all his attributes.

Suddenly, though, he was aware that Sienna had been seeing aroused men all day, and in the worst possible light. For the first time ever, he wished he were smaller, less intimidating. Almost without intending it, a reflex almost, his hand reached down to touch himself, or possibly to cover himself, he wasn't quite sure which, but suddenly Sienna half-smiled, and wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself all the way against him and closing her eyes, murmuring, "So warm…"

He began stroking her again, not trying to do anything just yet except provide her with comfort and the pleasure of warm naked skin on skin. Her eyes stayed closed, her body relaxed, which was unusual, he realised. Usually by now she was reaching out for him, aiming to pleasure him, unless of course he had prevented that by holding her wrists, or perhaps even tying her to the bedposts, so she could do nothing but feel, revel in the pleasure his body brought her. That was a fun game, but utterly inappropriate for the situation, so he let that go, and continued stroking, even though he could detect a very faint hint of musk mixed in with her familiar scent, and she was trying to turn, to bring her breasts towards his hands.

This new, needy Sienna was different, not someone he was used to, but though he would never, ever, have wished for it to happen this way, he found himself responding ardently to her, to her aching need for love and physical comfort. To have her showing him how much she needed him, to have her forget him, temporarily, abandoning herself to her desperate need… this was something to be treated almost with reverence, with loving care and attention.

Still he continued to caress her gently, wanting it to be utterly unambiguous, what she wanted, and so he held off much longer than he normally would, and only the sight of how hard and erect her nipples were persuaded him to risk sexual contact, to gently caress her breasts and press his lips against hers. She turned, slightly, so that his erection was between them, and her hands now reached out to him, slowly moving over him, her touch maddeningly and arousingly slow and deliberate. Gravely, she traced the lines of his body, all the ways in which he was different to her, broad shoulders and tapered waist and hips. Flat chest, thick biceps; dark hair dusting his chest and belly, the rasp of his stubble against her cheek.

She was mapping him, he realised. Mapping out his maleness, re-learning and demonstrating to herself what a man was, what a loving man was, a real man, one who would never harm a woman, but instead respect her and use his strength only for their pleasure and happiness. He was almost shy as, finally, her hands began to travel slowly down, trailing down his sides, then across his lower belly, finally tracing the soft warm weight of his balls and the firmness of his rigid cock, the soft velvet of his skin over the hard erection below, wet smoothness of the head, delighting in his soft moans as she pleasured him almost inadvertently, tracing over and round the head, up and down and around the soft ridge and over the top, spreading the wetness across him, lubricating him as her hands rubbed harder and harder…

"Sienna… I'm sorry… but I can't last much longer, so… how do you want to…" She was better, now, but still looked haunted, and somehow he couldn't see her going on top.

"Please go on top of me."

"Are you sure you want that?" He held her carefully, tipping his head on one side as he looked deep in her eyes. She looked older in some way, hurt, but at the same time somehow more powerful than before, as if part of her was already growing stronger, determined not to feel this way again.

"Yes. Please, my love, my beautiful big Bobby, go on top of me." She smiled wryly. "I don't think I'm up to doing much work, I'm afraid."

Being incredibly careful, he lifted himself on top and lowered himself onto her, the familiar sensation of the soft cushion of her lower belly taking his weight causing him to draw an involuntary breath. Gently, he wriggled forwards. Usually, one of them would guide him into her, but this time neither of them did, and he softly probed, feeling the soft slick wetness against the nerve endings of his cock. He had been wanting this all day, he realised, and was suddenly, perversely, glad that it had happened this way, that he had risen to the challenge of her need. He nudged at her, trying to find the right angle, knowing that she loved this, that the feel of the soft head of his erection against her was a delightful sensation for her, that he was pleasuring her even as he shifted his hips, nearly there… suddenly, he had it, and he was sliding in.

Sometimes he hurt her, no matter how careful they were, he was a big man and her muscles were still young and tight. She had never had any children to stretch them, but not this time, she was wide open and he slid in easily, neither of them even trying to hide their delight. He moved softly at first, a slow rhythm, bumping against her clit as he found the nerve endings deep inside her, and bent his back to be able to kiss one of her breasts. She writhed underneath him, urgent now, her hands gripping his backside and moving him against her, and suddenly his thrusts were faster and more urgent, and she was suddenly crying out, a deep animal moan, and he knew that he'd done it, that she'd had one of those climaxes she described as being "suddenly on me, and then I'm over the edge before I can help it, and it's so intense it's almost painful, but it feels incredible", and he thrust deep and hard into the tight wetness surrounding him and came, warmth gushing from him and into her, throbs of pleasure rocking his body as he finally came after such a long time of anticipation.

Almost without thinking, before he had even ceased coming, he was holding her, murmuring soft words of love and care and concern into her ear, and she was relaxed and warm underneath him, and he felt more satisfied than ever before, because he had made love to her and met her needs, and she wanted him…

…Back in the present, he continued to stare at her door, still frustrated, but now aroused too, which wasn't helping. He sighed again.

_You've been out here for an hour; she'll be asleep. _

Maybe, he thought, but if he knew one thing, it was that Sienna would rather he slept beside her even if they had rowed. Still conflicted, still partially aroused, he headed towards the bedroom, and hoped that his love would accept him into her bed, knowing even as he hoped that the only thing he could be certain of was his need for her. His rock.


	7. The Demons Out of My Dreams

**Warning**: This contains some references to sexual abuse, although not any graphic descriptions.

"Take away the sensation inside

Bittersweet migraine in my head

It's like a throbbing toothache of the mind

I can't take this feeling anymore.

I'll tell you what

Drain the pressure from the swelling

This sensation's overwhelming

Give me a long kiss goodnight, and everything will be alright,

Tell me now that I won't feel a thing

Just give me novocaine."

Green Day, "Give Me Novocaine" (album – "American Idiot").

Fuuuuck it huuuurts.

Wave after wave of pain.

I tell myself it's good, it means the bones are knitting back together.

What if I just stay like this forever?

Fuck, no, don't think that.

My arm and my shoulder blade hurt like I have never experienced pain before, not even that time Tanya broke three of my fingers.

Can't they give me more morphine? Fuck, no, I know they can't. Evil bastard doctors and nurses. They never tell you this. Everyone likes to think modern medicine has the answers, can fix anything, but fuuuuck, this hurts so fucking much.

Always thought I had a pretty high tolerance for pain. Over ten years of being beaten up by Tanya and working for MI5, plus… all the other stuff that's happened to me… I can take pain.

I can take pain if I can move.

I can't move.

Just have to lie here in pain and take whatever happens.

I try singing inside my head, find myself humming Green Day. "Out of money and I'm out of mind, kiss the demons out of my dreams…", and another memory threatens to roll over me. No, no, no, fuck no, I am not going there.

Think of something good. Thirty-five years, must be some good memories in there, I think, and another wash of images I can't control rolls over me.

Anne Langford's office at Five: my first debriefing after a successful assignment. I felt like God, or James Bond, or possibly both.

Tanya and I running through London at night, drunk and high on life, feeling so alive and free.

The Libertines stomping their way through "Don't Look Back Into The Sun", Jack and I at the back of the Tap 'n' Tin pub, watching what we thought was history being made. (Wrong.)

The first time I met Mike.

Sienna and I standing near Glastonbury's Pyramid stage, fireworks in the night, Chris Martin and about 70,000 people singing "With tears streaming down your face, when you lose something you can't replace… and I will try to fix you.". Which is deeply ironic, when you stop to think about it.

_Fuck_, just when I think the pain can't get worse, it does. My arm feel like it's on fire, every layer, from the bone through to what's left of the muscles and skin. I'm nearly screaming, but I won't, you don't ever let them see it hurts.

Fuck, I can't take this any more, give me the fucking drugs!

Suddenly, a huge male figure looms over me, as if summoned by thought, and I cringe before I can stop myself, and then I'm angry, and it's probably as well I can't move, because God knows what I'd do, and it's actually only AJ the nurse, and thank God for that. I suffer through his checks on me, and finally, tortuously, he gives me the meds, and the pain fades to a deep drumbeat, but a _faint_ deep drumbeat, and I can live with that. AJ slouches off, probably aggrieved that I'm not more grateful. I'm supposed to be fucking _grateful_ for the fact that they deign to give me a little pain relief? I didn't ask to be here. Fuck 'em all.

Deep breath, and calm the fuck down, Drew. Calm down.

I want Tanya, damnit. I am so sick of lying here with just my own thoughts and bad memories for company. (I really want Mike, but I can't ask him to be here twenty-four seven, so best he just comes when he can. No point his life being screwed up too. I can manage.)

I want Jack, and I want Sienna, but one's not speaking to me and the other's in the process of moving halfway across the planet. And probably also doesn't want to speak to me.

Remind me again, how exactly did I manage to fuck up my life this badly?

Flip back four months, and I'm hunting for Sienna in a bar I've never been in before. It's the sort of place – you get them a lot in London – which prices the drinks about three times what they're worth, on the grounds that if their clientele are stupid and rich enough to pay that much they deserve to be taken for everything they've got. Dido on the soundtrack, stockbrokers at the bar (being served by a barman with a decidedly dodgy sniffle and the look of a man on the hunt for customers), people checking their Blackberries, it's an utterly awful place.

About its one good point is that the clientele is sufficiently upmarket that someone in a tux doesn't stand out, as I am proving, but if I don't find Sienna soon I may be tempted to start shouting at people that Happy Hour is just starting at the bar to try and clear the crowd… ah. Flash of red hair in the corner of the bar. Sienna is perched on a stool next to a collection of empty glasses (it's a Friday and I guess that they've been doing a roaring trade for some time now), sipping a double vodka. Attagirl.

"Hey."

She looks up and smiles tiredly. "Hey. Can I get you something?"

"Best not."

She raises her eyebrows. "Who are you, and what did you do with Drew?"

I chuckle. "It's Mike's publisher's Summer Ball tonight, remember? Hence the monkey suit."

She shrugs. "Yeah, I forgot. It suits you." A brief grin, followed by another slurp of vodka.

"Long week?"

"Yeah. Aren't you supposed not to do that kind of thing?"

"What, go out in public with Mike?" She nods. "Nothing wrong in this day and age with a respectable business consultant accompanying his partner, the up and coming young author, the next Zadie Smith…"

Sienna chuckles, probably at the concept of me ever doing anything as boring as business consultancy. Who wants to have to wear a suit every day? Still, my knowledge of Russian business customs is more than enough to allow me to pass as one, and it handily explains why I'm often away "on business". (Steve Vallis, who _is_ a business consultant and my source for the latest information and gossip, thinks this is a huge joke, which in many ways I guess it is.)

I glance at my watch. I really do not give a toss about being late for the publisher's ball. I give a great deal of a toss about being late for Mike. This means a lot to him, as Jack has repeatedly pointed out to me. Anyone would think he didn't trust me to behave. Where would he get that idea? Anyway, I've got about twenty minutes before I have to jump in a taxi and get myself to the hotel, which should be ample time for what I want to tell her… Suddenly I'm nervous. An unfamiliar feeling. I savour the novelty.

"What do you want, Drew?" Sienna's eyes are tired as they meet mine, bloodshot. Her suit jacket hangs from the wall behind her; she's wearing only her suit skirt and a sleeveless blouse with wide straps. I have a sudden mental image of the neat row of faint teethmarks (not mine, I hasten to add) in her left shoulder and feel a strange twinge of… some feeling or other I can't identify.

"Umm… something to tell you."

She doesn't reply, just tips her head on one side and waits for me to speak. I grin and hold up my left hand so that my ring finger shows clearly, the new silver band there shining in the light of the bar's overhead spotlights.

I would never in a million years have expected that one day I would wear an engagement ring, but I would never in a million years have imagined someone like Mike coming along. I get to be with him for the rest of my life, my friends are happy, and I can piss off every homophobe for miles by referring to it loudly as an "engagement ring", and the impending ceremony as "getting married". What a happy world mine has become. Life doesn't get better.

Sienna stares at my hand for so long without speaking I actually start to wonder if I'm not wearing the ring. Finally, a good three minutes later, she manages to drag out a single word, "Congratulations", and buries her head once more in the vodka.

"Okay, that's not quite the response I was expecting."

Another heavy word, dragged out of her. "Sorry." And another slurp of vodka.

I try being funny. "I had a mental picture of how this was going to go, and in it, you were smiling." I grin as charmingly as I can. Usually this works, but not now. Sienna grins mirthlessly, a sarcastic expression that doesn't suit her. "Oh, well, I'm so sorry to spoil your _picture_." Another slurp of vodka, finishing the glass.

I have a sudden and horrible realisation that the empty glasses on the bar were not left by previous drinkers, followed by an equally sharp realisation that I need to start thinking about getting a taxi, or I'm going to be late. Fuck it, where's Jack when you need him? He can do the whole genuine sympathy thing. I can only do fake.

"Is something wrong?" God, Drew, could you have put that any more stupidly? Sienna raises her head and glares at me.

"Yes, it _fucking_ is." She suddenly looks as though she's going to start crying. Rapid mood changes; classic sign of advanced intoxication… shit, shit, shit! How come I didn't pick this up when I first saw her? Head in the fucking game, Davenport!

Sienna glowers at me. "How come _you_ get to be happy? How come you get someone? Jack has Tanya, and you have Michael, and two years ago I had that too, and then…" Her face crumples. "What did I do that was so horrible that meant I didn't deserve that? Why am I stuck on my own? I wanted _kids_, Drew. I was going to have a family and I should have a family by now and I'm stuck here in a fucking foreign country and I miss him so fucking much."

Before I can say anything in reply (like what?) Sienna suddenly and gracelessly gets off the chair, and stalks off towards the toilets, the one place I can't follow. Fucking great. I can't in good conscience leave her here. Self-defence training or no self-defence training, she's easy prey for any bar sharks, of whom I can already see several circling. Can't take her with me, don't like the idea of putting her in a taxi back to hers on her own, since I know for a fact that she has a lot of vodka back there and she would probably carry on drinking, or, worse, stagger back out to the local pub.

How much has she drunk? I count the glasses and wince. That much in the course of one evening… fine. That much in less than an hour… shit. That would have me staggering. A little voice at the back of my head points out that I should have spotted by now that Sienna has been drinking more than the rest of us whenever we go out, and she's smaller than any of us. How long has this been happening?

Right, time to call up the cavalry. I ring Jack and Tanya's, and get the answer phone. I ring their mobiles. And get the answer phone. I try again, several times, and by the third time I've heard Jack chirping: "We're obviously not here, please leave a message…" I have to resist the urge to fling the phone across the room. Sienna's still in there, I'm going to be late, Jack is being unhelpful by remote, and I know no-one else I can trust to get here and look after her.

Time for emergency measures. I slip quickly through the crowd to the ladies toilets, adopt an expression of concern mixed with anger, then show open the door to an accompaniment of angry female yelps. I start a running commentary as I throw open a few toilet doors: "Excuse me, ladies, has anyone seen my sister? Red hair, quite short, probably crying, you should stop doing that, sweetheart, you'll dissolve all the bone in your nose, and if you keep sticking your fingers down your throat you'll wear all the enamel off your teeth by the time you're thirty, now, has _anyone_ seen my sister?" (Sometimes I wonder about the country I'm supposedly defending, I really do.)

Eventually one woman who looks slightly less pissed than the others points me to the end cubicle, which is locked. Fortunately, the doors are not very high, so I scramble over and hope hard that this is the right one. It is. Sienna is sobbing brokenly (fortunately whilst sitting on top of the toilet with all her clothes on), but rallies long enough to tell me to fuck off. Charming.

"I am not leaving you here."

"Since when do you decide what I do? Fuck off, Drew."

I put on a face of professional anger, so that she knows I'm not kidding around. "SiSi, I'm not leaving you here like this, and I can't stay here and drink with you, so come with me now." I shift into concern; not hard. "Let me take you home, and you'll feel better in the morning."

"No I fucking won't."

"SiSi! Do I have to carry you out of here?" (I hope not; a drunk person, a fireman's carry and a rented tuxedo do not a happy mix make.)

"Just leave me alone."

"SiSi, no matter how often you tell me to fuck off, I'm not going. Not when you're like this. Come on. Please." I hold out a hand, then decide this calls for no half-measures, and wrap an arm round her shoulders. She suddenly starts crying on my shoulder, and doesn't resist when I stand up and pull her onto her feet. I steer the two of us to the door, to find a hefty bouncer blocking the way.

"What do you think you're doing, sir?"

I size him up, and decide that whilst I could take him, and I'm not too bothered about being banned from here for good, violence is not the best course of action here since I'm already running late for Mike. I decide it's time to become DI Andrew Davenport, and whip out my police ID. Fake, but looks convincing; there are times when I need to be able to tell people what to do without letting on I work for Five, and most people will instinctively obey the police.

"I think that my sister has just been dumped by her boyfriend, and I'm taking her home. I also think that you're going to show us to the back entrance so that we can leave quickly, and that when we get there, there's going to be a taxi waiting, and in return, I'm not going to tip off the local nick that your barman's selling coke and your toilets are full of it. Now show me the way to the door."

His face darkens. I hold his glower without blinking and think about how I could beat the crap out of him without breaking a sweat, then flick my gaze down to my ID. It works. Five minutes later we're in a taxi and heading for Jack and Tanya's place. Mine is too far and I really don't want to leave her unattended; if the worst comes to the worst I can let her in with the spare key and leave a message for them that I left her there. I try desperately to get hold of Mike, but he's not answering his mobile and I have a nasty feeling that means the event's already started. Bugger. I start crafting an apology in my head, but am rudely interrupted by the taxi driver.

"You're getting out here."

I peer out of the window. We're near their house but not there. "It's a bit further on."

"I know, but I'm not having her chuck up in the back."

I glance across at SiSi, who is looking decidedly green.

"Oh come on, it's only round the corner…" I try, but the driver stops by the side of the road with a pointed screech of tyres and jerk of brakes. "Okay, okay." I fish a few notes out of my pocket, ask him to wait for me at Tanya and Jack's address, and steer SiSi out of the car. Just in time, too. Maybe it's as well the driver let us out here; Tanya and Jack's neighbours probably wouldn't have thanked me for letting SiSi puke in their rhododendrons. I hand her a tissue and she wipes her mouth, looking upset (and still nauseous). Fortunately, she's stopped arguing with me, and can just about walk, so we make it to their front door without further incident.

I glance at my watch. Damnit, I'm going to be late. But, hopefully, not too late, especially not if the cabbie knows the backalleys around here well enough. It's not that far by car. Why is Jack taking such a long time to answer the door? Their car's in the drive, and I can see his motorbike leathers through the door. I really hope they haven't walked to the local pub.

Suddenly, the door is thrown open, and Jack glares at me, apparently really, really pissed off for some reason or other.

"What the hell is it now?"

I gesture at SiSi, who is still looking decidedly grey, and about to burst into tears any minute. Jack's glare gets even worse.

"What have you done now?"

"Me? I haven't done anything! I found her like this! Honest!"

Suddenly, SiSi pushes past me and Jack, and into the downstairs bathroom, from whence we can both hear the sounds of repeated retching. I suddenly notice that Jack is wearing nothing other than a pair of boxer shorts and a oversized T-shirt with "Army Chick!" stencilled across the front. It does not take an IQ the size of mine to reconstruct the likely sequence of events that led to him wearing Tanya's T-shirt, and I mentally wince, then recall that Tanya let slip to me last week that she and Jack are planning to try for a baby, and then wince some more. No wonder he's pissed off with me.

Jack sighs, a tired I-don't-know-why-I-expect-any-better-from-you sigh that will probably come in handy for him in about fifteen years' time, if tonight goes according to plan. "Always the same with you, isn't it? You fuck people up, then expect me to fix everything."

"I don't expect you to fix this. Just shove some water into her and let her sleep it off."

"One night. Just _one_ night, on our own, Tanya and I. Is it really asking so bloody much?" Jack mutters, and glances at the bathroom door. Sounds of sobbing are coming from within. Both of us sigh, heavily, then Jack looks at me and suddenly does a double-take. "Hang on, isn't it Mike's big bash tonight?"

"Yes, and thank you, because I have to go." I turn swiftly and leave, to find… no taxi. I run out into the street and look up and down. Still no taxi. "Fuck!" I run back to Jack's front door. "Can I borrow your car?"

"No."

"Oh come on, I'm only driving it a mile or so, I'll bring it back first thing tomorrow."

"The rest of that sentence was going to be, "No, you can't borrow it because the battery's gone flat and Amp's bringing a new one tomorrow morning"."

I run swiftly through my list of options. No tube station for miles, no buses from here that go anywhere near where I'm going, no chance of getting another cab on a Friday night, no chance of getting away with hotwiring a car since there are too many people wandering around at this night of time. (I would return it tomorrow. Honest!)

Jack appears to read my mind, since he snatches his keys off the table behind him and holds them in a white-knuckled death grip. "There is no way on God's sweet little green planet that I'm lending you my bike."

"I wouldn't ask you to." Mainly because I have no idea how to ride one. Only one thing left. "Could you do me a favour?"

I hadn't thought Jack's expression could get more pissy; I was wrong. "WHAT?"

"I think I left some trainers upstairs, and a pair of old trousers, too…" I adopt my most appealing expression. Jack glowers some more, then kicks the door shut. Just as I start wondering if that was his answer, I hear him stomping off upstairs. I can still hear SiSi crying, and at the back of my head, a thought tries to emerge, but doesn't make it, as the door opens again, then slams shut, and something hits me in the chest. It turns out to be a backpack, containing an old pair of trousers, and, thank God, some trainers. And a small towel.

That's Jack all over. Considerate even when pissed off and throwing things at you. "Thank you!" I yell through the door, then strip swiftly and change into the trousers and trainers, then folding up the tux and shoving it in the backpack along with my dress shoes.

On a list of shit-crazy things I've done, this isn't that high, but it _is_ on the list. Through the windows I can hear SiSi's voice rising in a wail: "It's like Drew always says, he was just using me," and Tanya's answering murmur, then Jack's voice: "Drew _always_ says that, hmm?"

I get the blame for everything round here. I take a deep breath, mentally plot the route from here to the hotel, thank God that I can run fast, then launch myself forwards….

_Shit_!

Torn out of the memory, I nearly scream as a cramp hits me hard, my left leg convulsing into agony. I rock backwards and forwards on the hospital bed. I guess the morphine is busy with my arm, because this hurts like I can't describe. I hear a low, hissing wail, and realise it's mine, and then it happens, I'm back in the memory, not that one, the one I never, ever, wanted to go through again.

"_Hi, Andy, how's it going?"_

_So friendly, my uncle's voice. So concerned. _

"_You're settling in okay, aren't you? Lucky we had this spare room."_

Lucky for some_, I want to say, but can't. _

_In the beginning, I seriously thought about running away. Leaving home, living on the streets. But I know what that's like (I'd met Tanya by then, and I had no illusions about what sleeping rough was like), and I was too much of a coward to do it. _

_I figured he'd find me, anyway. _

"_Yes… yes, Uncle Kevin, I'm okay."_

_He drops a friendly hand across my shoulders, and it takes all my willpower not to flinch. _

"_Good. That's good, Andy." His hand caresses me, and I think, _don't move, don't move, just let it happen and it will be over with soon

"_How are your studies coming along? We'll need to start thinking about university for you soon. I'm sure you'll get into the LSE. That would be good, Andy, wouldn't it? You could stay here. Save your student loan for a bit more partying."_

"_Yeah. Yeah, that would be good." I really hope my feelings aren't showing on my face. It's taken me all my ingenuity to hide the fact I've been offered a place by the Metropolitan Police. I don't start training for another six months – they have so many applicants they stagger the training times – but it's my ticket out. It was the only thing I could think of that I could do that would earn me enough that I could move out. That, and being in the police should protect me from him. I hope. _

"_Andy…" Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. His tone is cajoling now, knowing. Oh shit. Has he guessed? _

"_Sometimes I get the impression you're not happy here." He lets go of me and limps over to the bed, looking unhappy. Crocodile fucking tears._

"_Of course, I am, Uncle!" I rush to reassure him, hating myself as I do. _

"_Because, you know, if you want you could try to go back, but you know what my brother's like. He was always small-minded. Even when we were growing up. When I heard he'd thrown you out, well, I wasn't surprised."_

"_I know… I know. It was good of you and Auntie Sue to offer me a home." Oh God, I know what's coming. Please, let it not hurt. _

"_You see, you and me, we're alike, and we've got to watch out for each other. You do know how much me and your Auntie want you here, Andy, don't you? It's not easy for us to manage without the income from the room, not with me on disability benefit, but we wouldn't dream of charging you rent…" _

"_I know you wouldn't, Uncle." Oh God, I hate this next part almost more than I hate what I know is coming, because it makes me complicit in what happens next. I say the words and they're like ashes in my mouth. "I'm really grateful." _

_He smiles, a heartwarming, sunny, hideous expression. Why doesn't anyone else ever see this? Are they all blind, or do they just think I deserve it? "I know you are, Andy. Why don't you come over here and show me how much?" He winks roguishly. "You know you enjoy it, too." _

_And I put the smile on my face, and yield. _

And yes, sometimes I did enjoy it. Involuntary physiological reactions to stimulation and all that.

But it always hurt.

Every time.

Make it stop.

Make it stop.

Make it stop.


	8. No Worse You Could Do

"Have we enough to keep it together?

Or do we just keep on pretending

And hope our luck is never ending.

You tried to pull the wool,

I wasn't feeling too clever,

And you take all that they're lending,

Until you needed mending.

Oh, if you wanna try,

If you wanna try,

There's no worse you could do.

I know you lie,

All you do is make me cry,

And all these words, they ain't true.

I can't take me anywhere

(I can't take you anywhere)

You can't take me anywhere

(I'll take you anywhere, oh, I'll take you anywhere you wanna go),

You can't stand me now."

The Libertines, "Can't Stand Me Now" (album – "The Libertines").

_Cassie's Place Bar and Grill, New York. _

_November 2005. _

_One week before the Ethan Garrett case._

"So, I hear you went to visit Drew a couple of times?"

Alex Eames sipped her drink, and contemplated her response. Across the table, her partner's – partner – contemplated with eager green eyes. Behind her, the barman served a young couple, cleared away a glass and looked across enquiringly. She shook her head; she and Sienna were planning to take it slow tonight.

"Yeah, for someone I don't like too well, I really did spend quite a lot of time at his bedside," she replied, and didn't miss the very slight narrowing of Sienna's eyes. _She still cares about him, then_, Eames thought, and mentally sighed.

Only _slight_ narrowing, though, she noticed, and the other woman's tone was unchanged from her earlier question, still friendly and interested. "How did it go? I hear you ended up trying to prevent her beating up Amelia Jackson."

"Yeah, that was… kinda interesting," she replied, and sighed heavily. Across from her, Sienna met her eyes with an expression of frank sympathy and understanding.

"I can imagine. Tanya in a rage is not someone you want to be standing in front of," she replied, and sipped her drink, still continuing to meet Alex's eyes. It was a remarkably effective technique, Alex reflected, as she drained her marguerita (noticing that Sienna's eyes flicked to the barman, yet she refrained from calling him over, apparently deciding that if she waited a little longer, it would look more friendly and less like she was trying to get Alex drunk). It combined what appeared to be quite genuine friendly interest with an unmistakable undercurrent that Sienna would not go away until she'd found out what she was after.

_Sienna Mark II_, she thought with a slight wry smile, and wondered, not for the first time, how Bobby was coping. "Yeah, that may be the understatement of the century…"

_Just outside the high-security ICU Ward, St Vincent' s Hospital_.

_London, England. _

_The morning after the end of "Bulletproof Armour"._

Alex ran down the corridor, aware of the two pairs of eyes boring into her, turned the corner, and paused to think. She now had four minutes and thirty seconds to come up with a solution. The thought did not bother her, since it seemed to her that in theory, at least, this was a problem with a simple solution.

Tanya was no longer Drew Davenport's next of kin. However, she, Eames knew who his next of kin was; his partner, Michael Jones. Jones _had_ to be around here somewhere. God knew, she herself had stayed by the sides of fellow cops long into the night and often into the morning, beyond exhaustion, until she knew they were safe. She had stayed by her mother's bedside for _days_ following her stroke, and once by Bobby's side for a whole night, way back in the early stages of their partnership where he'd been knocked out by a perp with a two-by-four and a bloodstream consisting largely of PCP.

Unfortunately, it followed from that line of reasoning that Jones was probably behind the locked door that she and Tanya had been trying to get through. Since this was a hospital, however, there had to be a doctor round here somewhere. Therefore all she needed to do was find one, persuade him to find Jones, and then Tanya could see Davenport and hopefully they could leave without bloodshed.

Ignoring a nasty gut feeling that this was not the best plan she'd ever had, she continued to search down the corridor. The ward appeared to be nearly empty, and part of her thought that that was strange, but most of her was getting increasingly frantic. Just as she was frantically beginning to wonder if the entire ward was empty, she busted in a door halfway down the corridor and found an unconscious patient. _And an unconscious doctor_, she realised incredulously.

Oh, it _looked_ as though the man in the white coat was merely contemplating the view from the window, lost in thought, his head propped on his forearms on the window sill, whilst behind him his patient slumbered the deep sleep of the drugged. But as Eames approached, she saw with increasing incredulity that the man was actually asleep standing up, propped carefully in place by a single crutch under his arm.

Under other circumstances, she might have felt reluctant to disturb what was probably a much-needed nap, but needs must. She kicked the crutch, then stuck a hand out to catch the man by his shoulder as he began to fall sideways, then caught himself. His eyes snapped open, his face going from slack to fully wakeful in about two seconds. A pair of intense blue eyes fixed on her like two lamps.

"What do you want?" he snapped, sounding unsurprisingly aggrieved.

"You're needed in ICU."

He retrieved the crutch from the floor and propped it under his arm, as he replied: "No, actually, I'm not. If I were, there would be an alarm going off. And a crash team running past the door. And three large male nurses running in here, as opposed to a small blonde I've never seen before. So therefore, no, I'm not needed." He propped himself against the window again and dropped his head into his arms.

Eames wrenched the crutch away and fixed him with her best glare. "You're needed to _prevent_ a serious injury occurring."

"I doubt it. If I did that sort of thing I'd be putting myself out of work."

Eames decided to go for broke. "Do you know who Andrew Davenport _is_?"

A faint expression of interest crossed the doctor's sardonic face, and Eames realised that he was younger than she'd first thought, perhaps in his early thirties. "If by that you're asking, do I know him personally, no, haven't a clue. Don't care. If by that you're asking, do I know who's paying for him to be treated by the top-ranked rehabilitative unit in the country…" He let the sentence trail off. Eames pressed her advantage.

"Then you know the sort of person he associates with. Does the name Tanya Simmons mean anything to you?"

"Given the rather large amount of work she tends to send my way, yes, as it happens, I do." He looked more interested. "I take it she's here."

"Yes. And about to start a fight with the blonde guard dog you have on the door unless she gets in to see him."

"Really? That sounds like it would be a job for security." He shrugged, then grinned at Eames' incredulous reaction, and she realised with growing fury that he was teasing her.

She bit off her words. "Stop playing around. Go in there, find Michael Jones, tell him about the situation, and then we can avoid a small massacre outside your _patient's room, Doctor_."

"Mmm-hmm." He stood, stretched, then strode, seemingly unhurried, out of the door. His strides, however, were deceptively fast; Eames found she was nearly jogging to keep up. They reached the entry to the high-security ward to find Tanya and the blond woman still facing off, glaring at each other with a combined hatred that could have melted steel.

Beside her, the tall doctor clapped his hands and announced with a sunny smile: "Ladies, ladies, ladies, can we save the domestics for a later date?"

Two heads whipped around, transferring their glares to him. He seemed not at all fazed. Eames grudgingly admired his sangfroid, whilst mentally calculating that he had around thirty seconds before they both decided that _he _was the enemy and he withered under a double dose of female rage.

"I understand there's an issue here over access to Andrew Davenport." He addressed Tanya, to the blond woman's obvious annoyance.

"Yeah, you got that right. I need to see him." Tanya was nearly shouting, and Eames realised that under the rage, she was deeply afraid. _What happened to her?_ she wondered briefly. There was an old story here, one she herself was unlikely ever to discover.

"You're not the next of kin." The blonde woman snarled, half at Tanya, half at Eames. Tanya returned the snarl with an near-murderous glower.

"She has a point." The doctor addressed a seething Tanya urbanely. "Happily, not a very difficult one to resolve. We merely need to find the actual next of kin…" He strolled across to the door, then rapped on it sharply. Behind it, another door opened, and the small Chinese woman in a lab coat whom Eames had seen beyond in the company of the blond woman and a man – _him_, she realised, looking at the doctor – emerged. Behind the reinforced glass of the door, she cocked her head in enquiry, but made no move to open it.

"Angie, go and find Michael Jones, please." The doctor raised his voice slightly to be heard through the glass, and spoke for the first time in the voice of authority. Eames suddenly realised that, despite his seeming youth, he was probably more senior that she had at first assumed.

The woman replied without speaking, making a series of fluid gestures across her body. _She's deaf_, Eames thought, then realised that she couldn't be; how could she have heard the knock at the door? Frowning, she watched intently, aware of Tanya and the MI5 agent doing the same. She was not fluent in British Sign Language, but didn't need to be in order to get the gist; _I think he's asleep_.

"I doubt it, and in any case he won't mind being woken. Go and find him, please."

The woman shrugged, then turned and vanished again. They remained frozen, until suddenly she reappeared with a young man behind her, pointed him to the door, then left to (Eames presumed) tend to Davenport. The doctor punched in the combination for the door to allow them through, keeping a watchful eye on Tanya, who thankfully made no further attempts to get through it.

Jones' face showed the bleary look of a recently traumatised person who had just been rudely awoken. "What is it?" His face suddenly became hopeful. "Is Drew awake?"

Tanya suddenly looked stunned, and Eames mentally kicked herself. Of course, they hadn't thought to question whether Davenport would be conscious. Given the extensive surgery he'd just had, quite possibly he was still sedated.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the doctor's murmur of "No, not yet…", then further interrupted by Tanya's urgent request: "Mike, I need to go and see him."

"No, you don't."

Eames felt a sudden, sinking sensation of despair, which did not get better as Jones turned to face a puzzled-looking Tanya with an angry expression. "You don't need to see him. I can take care of everything."

Eames felt rather than saw the blonde MI5 agent's unpleasant smile as Tanya replied: "I'm sure you can, Mike. I just want to see him."

"I don't want you to."

_Oh, shit_. Eames suddenly recalled with great clarity Tanya's words to Davenport on the evening that Jack had revealed the truth about why Davenport had brought Sienna to England. _You fuck off out of my house now, Drew, you little bastard, and you don't come back, or I'll make you sorry you were born! _

She had been angry. They all had. Angry, and reacting on the spur of the moment.

And Davenport, uncharacteristically, hadn't said a word in reply.

"Mike, don't be a pain in the arse. I've been his friend since we were just kids." Tanya's voice was going dangerously close to pleading. Beside Eames, the blonde woman's smirk was becoming increasingly unbearable.

"Well, it's a shame you're not any more, then, isn't it?"

"Mike, for fuck's sake!"

Jones' voice climbed suddenly to a shout. "You threw him out! _You threw him out_."

"Oh, for God's sake, Mike. Drew and I yell at each other all the time! You know that. He'll tell you himself. Ask him."

He stared angrily at her. "You weren't there when he came home." He fell silent, then rallied. "I'm not letting you see him. I'm not letting anyone near him who's not a doctor."

Eames wondered uncharitably if Davenport had been thinking with anything other than his groin when he selected his boyfriend. _Unfair, Alex_. She knew from bitter past experience that grief could turn a saint into a shrieking harpy, or, as here, a petulant child.

Tanya looked as though she'd been punched in the face. "Mike…" She fell silent. "Mike, do you know what he did to SiSi?"

_Oh God_. Eames resisted the urge to shake her head in despair. Tanya might be right, but forcing Jones to defend his partner was hardly going to make him more amenable.

"Yes. And he told me long before he told you. You're not his next of kin anymore. Let it go." Jones turned and left without another word, and the blonde woman reassumed her place in front of the door with an expression of barely suppressed triumph that gave Eames an unprofessional urge to slap her hard. Beside her, the doctor sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. Eames turned to try to persuade Tanya away from the door, then paused for a second, then forced herself to continue as though she'd seen nothing.

Behind the blonde woman, the door was still open. Just a crack, but open. The doctor, checking his pager, hadn't seen it. It was, undoubtedly, the MI5 agent's responsibility to see it closed, but she had been too distracted by events – and her own sense of vindication – to check it properly.

Eames knew that, strictly speaking, she should point out that the door was open. She was debating her options when Tanya spoke, and her voice was so devoid of emotion that Eames felt her stomach contract, because she had heard voices like that before only when someone had reached the end of their tether.

"You are going to let me through that door."

"I can't without the next of kin's permission. Which it looks like you don't have, and aren't likely to get."

"Maybe not. But the way I see it, I do have the combination to that door." Tanya grinned nastily. "I have _really good_ eyesight, sweetheart. So that just gives me you to worry about."

Beside Eames, the doctor's head snapped up. As Eames frantically tried to work whose side, if any, she should be on, the blonde woman picked up the chair she had previously been sitting on with no sign of effort, her hands gripping the top of the backrest lightly, obviously intending to use it as a barrier or possibly even a weapon.

Tanya's expression suddenly switched from fury to disgust. Professional disgust. "You'd attack a _pregnant woman_ with a chair?" She pulled aside her jacket for emphasis. Almost unthinkingly, the blonde woman's eyes followed the movement…

So quickly it was over with before Eames realised it had started, Tanya attacked, hooking the chair forward with one skilful sweep of her foot, pulling the blonde woman helplessly forward. Tanya pivoted on her feet lightly, hardly needing to use force as the blonde woman's momentum propelled her forward and into Tanya's grasp; almost before the woman had time to gasp, she had been thrown hard against the wall, bouncing off it to the hard linoleum floor, where she lay gasping and winded for a second, then forced herself to her feet, but too late. Tanya was through the door, and a sudden clatter from inside Davenport's room suggested she'd surprised the doctor's colleague. Eames charged through the door herself, then stopped, catching sight of the man in the bed, and thinking drearily, _after all this, the wrong room_…

But it wasn't the wrong room. It was Davenport, but an unconscious Davenport so grey-faced and ill-looking that Eames hadn't recognised him at first.

He was a mess. His left arm was surrounded by a vicious-looking metal brace. That it was undoubtedly there to hold his arm still whilst the bones reknitted did not soften the shock of seeing it, nor did it ease the sight of the restraints holding him to the bed to prevent him injuring himself when he awoke. He had several IV lines going into his arms. Eames counted and was relieved to see that there were fewer than five, but not relieved to see what looked like heavy-duty padding underneath him. He lay at a slightly odd angle, and she worried that his back was damaged too.

Tanya seemed oblivious to all these, racing round to the side of his bed, then realising she was on the wrong side, next to his bad arm. With an expression of near-anguish, she sprinted to the other side of the bed, then took his good hand with a tenderness utterly at odds with the aggressive woman of a few seconds ago. "Drew, it's me. It's me, Sim. I'm here, okay? I'm here." The relief in her voice was so palpable Eames was moved. She knew nothing of their past, but Davenport and Tanya evidently had a long and intense friendship.

"What the _hell_?"

Eames's head whipped around to see Michael Jones bursting into the room, looking furious. The tall doctor smartly stepped forward and took him by one shoulder, murmuring forcefully. Eames could not make out his words, but Jones's anger seemed to be subsiding. She turned back to hear Tanya speaking urgently. "Listen, Drew, I might not be able to come see you for a while, but I'm here now, and I promise, I'll watch out for you." She smiled softly. "I hope you can hear me in there. Just remember, I'm here for you, like you've always been for me."

Behind her, Eames was aware of the doctor and the MI5 agent moving closer to the bed. Tanya straightened up with no sign that she was aware of them, but her words indicated she'd seen them. "Okay, Drew, I've got to go, but I'll be back." She turned with dignity and moved towards the door, pausing only to mutter to the blonde woman: "Stop whining, bitch. _I_ didn't just break _your_ arm."

The woman forced a smile onto her face, but she was obviously still in pain. Eames suddenly realised she was young, perhaps only in her early twenties. "You won't be seeing him again any time soon."

Tanya turned towards the doctor, who spread his hands wide in resignation. "I'm afraid she's right. Without permission of the next of kin, we can't let you in here."

Tanya's eyes narrowed, and Eames instinctively tensed, fearing more violence, but the doctor, closer to Tanya than she, did not react, merely held her gaze, and Tanya's expression calmed. "You can once Drew wakes up," she replied, and swept forward and out of the door. Eames let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, and headed for the door, following the surgeon out. As she passed him, he muttered as an aside: "Well, this looks set to be an interesting few weeks."

"Thank you," she said, although for what she wasn't quite sure.

"Not a problem."

"I'm sorry… I still don't know your name."

"House. Jonathan House. I run the rehabilitative unit here."

"Dr House… That sounds familiar."

"You may be thinking of a relative of mine. I have a distant cousin in America who heads up a diagnostics department over there. We're not close. You'd better go and find your friend before she threatens to inflict any more violence on the staff."

He turned, dismissing her, and she left the ward in search of Tanya, finding her eventually in the women's toilets two floors down, staring into a mirror with unseeing eyes and a troubled expression. She did not turn her head, but her words were heavy. "You know what?"

Eames shook her head and waited.

"You'll like this. What time is it?" Eames frowned, momentarily puzzled at the non sequiteur, then shrugged and glanced at her watch. "Half past ten."

Tanya smiled a bitter smile. "Three and a half hours ago, I swore to myself and to Jack I wouldn't go getting into any fights. Not whilst I was pregnant. Turn over a new leaf." She closed her eyes and sighed wearily. "_Fuck_. What do I do now?"

Eames could think of nothing useful to say, other than "We could go for a cup of tea?"

Back in the present, the round of fresh drinks arrived, and Sienna thanked the barman. Eames noticed that she sipped cautiously, then set the drink down. Such a contrast, she thought, to the cheerful gulps with which she used to dispatch beers at their old haunt, O'Malley's bar, two years ago. But then, so much had changed. Before, Sienna's wardrobe had heavily featured suits with short skirts and tailored jackets, with strappy heels just the right side of professional and hints of fancy lingerie just visible at the top of an artfully-unbuttoned blouse. Eames had privately thought at the time that, contrary to some of the more bitchy rumours in the bullpen, the younger woman had been using her sexuality as a statement, not a weapon. A statement that had been equal parts endearing and infuriating in its vulnerability. _I'm grown up, just look at me!_

She smiled wryly at the memory. Sienna Mark II still favoured tailored suits, and for all Eames knew probably still the fancy lingerie - to judge by the lines of her jacket - but the overall look now was less overtly sexy, and more professional. Harder-edged. She wore simpler suits in darker colours, and that mane of red hair (she had let it grow since arriving in New York; Eames rather suspected it was less for Sienna's own benefit than for Bobby's) was neatly held back in a simple hairgrip at the back. Heeled boots and shoes had replaced the strappy sandals, and Eames had not missed the tauter lines of her arms and shoulders when she took off her jacket, nor the fact that she was usually armed, although she preferred to carry concealed.

Sienna had truly grown up, the softer young ex-Interpol interpreter having matured, hardened even, into the calm, professional Interpol section head who was currently observing herself, Alex Eames, with an air of friendly but slightly calculating interest that could not have contrasted more markedly with the slightly overeager, nervous, friendship Sienna had offered her during her and Bobby's first relationship.

One major point in Sienna's favour, she thought. She had always understood that Bobby had no sexual interest in Alex, but that their relationship was far deeper than the usual bond between a cop and his or her partner, and that sometimes the two of them would spend hours together alone.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Sienna remarked: "It sounds like you had an interesting time of it."

The voice was different, too, Eames thought. Still that odd mix of American with a slight hint of Russian, but overlaid with an ironic inflection from time to time; the apparent legacy of two years in Britain. _Or two years spent with Davenport_. The thought was hard to avoid, but Eames still wished she hadn't had it. It was obvious from Sienna's hunger – well-concealed, but visible to Eames' trained powers of observation – for more details about her visits to Davenport's bedside that she still had feelings for the spy.

That hadn't changed either, then, Eames mused as she set her drink down. Both the old and the new Siennas were still as touchingly loyal to their friends and loved ones as ever. She smiled at Sienna, feeling again that stir of kinship for someone else who cared for Bobby's well-being as much as she herself.

"Yes, you could say that." Eames rolled her eyes. "Although that doesn't even compare with the second time."

"I did get the impression from Jack that that didn't go well."

Eames snorted. "You could say that. Utter disaster would be what I'd call it…"

It had been a week later, and Eames had been making a few last-minute preparations to leave for New York the following day. Her suitcase, naturally, was already packed, and her passport and tickets stowed safely. However, the most important pre-departure task had still not been completed, and it had taken longer than she'd expected to select just the right present for her nephew. Having finished her shopping, she'd called Tanya to say that she was on her way back for their last meal together, and the other woman had suggested that she could share a ride home with Jack, who had just finished work. She'd met him just outside his office; fortunately for her, he had driven to work early, needing the car to help transport some last-minute food shopping.

She was privately not looking forward to the evening, since Sienna would be staying behind in New York for nearly two months after she and Bobby returned, Interpol having requested that she stay in London a little longer to train a successor. Eames was surprised that she and Bobby had even agreed to join them, and suspected that it had been Sienna's wish, not Bobby's, that the two of them dine as a couple with her friends. She wondered darkly if he had realised yet just what a wrench it would be for Sienna to leave London and her friends behind.

Beside her, at the wheel of the car, Jack too seemed to be lost in his thoughts. They did not appear to be particularly happy ones, and she realised why when they pulled up at the car park for St Vincent's Hospital. She turned to him, and before she could open her mouth, he replied forcefully: "I need to visit him, and I haven't yet. Just for ten minutes. Please." He had parked the car and gone off to get a parking ticket before she could even reply.

They walked in silence to the ICU ward, to find it apparently deserted. Eames briefly had visions of searching the entire hospital for Davenport, but a few minutes spent questioning the Family Services staff elicited the information that the ICU Blue Ward had been temporarily moved to another ward, "due to a gas leak". They set off again in search, Eames trailing behind Jack, who seemed to be a man on a mission. They arrived outside the temporary ward to find a makeshift waiting area. Eames had been half-expecting to find the blonde female MI5 agent, but instead the door was being guarded by a dark-haired man in his early thirties. He appeared to be reading _FHM_, but the way he registered their approach without having to look up instantly identified him to Eames as yet another of Davenport's compatriots. _No locked door this time, though_. Perhaps Davenport was recovering and didn't need such a high level of security, she thought hopefully.

"Hello, Doyle." Jack greeted the man, who looked up. Eames blinked, then remembered that Jack and Tanya worked for MI5 from time to time, albeit off the books.

"Well, hello, Mr McAllister. I see you've not got your wife in tow." Doyle's accent was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a melodic Irish lilt, although something about him was tripping Eames' _Danger! _instincts.

"She's banned from seeing Drew." McAllister bit off the words, and Eames realised for the first time that he didn't really want to be here.

"Aye, that does sound like her. Now, you'll be wanting to see him." Doyle rose gracefully to his feet, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Yes, we would."

Eames wondered if Doyle could hear the irony in McAllister's voice. If so, he didn't react. Instead, he strolled down the corridor and stuck his head in at one of the doors. They could hear a faint murmur of voices, one of which sounded very much like Davenport's. Doyle returned with a smile.

"Aye, he's awake, although the doctors do say that I'm not supposed to be letting you see him for more than ten minutes."

"That's just fine," McAllister muttered, and marched off towards Davenport's room with the air of a man… well, if Eames was being honest, with the air of a man about to unblock a drain, or have a tooth removed, or generally do some other type of job he really didn't want to, but knew he had to.

Eames followed him, but was stopped by Doyle, who caught her arm and murmured: "I hear as how you would be the lady to whom Drew Davenport owes his life?"

She pasted on a professional smile, whilst trying not to blink. That was not the sort of information she would have expected to be common knowledge; just who was Doyle? "Yes, I suppose you could say that," she dissembled, hoping to escape.

"Well, I suppose we should all be grateful to you. The world would be a much duller place without him."

Doyle smiled charmingly. She met his eyes for the first time, and nearly gasped. She had seen eyes like that before. Doyle's pale eyes were as dead as the eyes of a shark. _A professional killer_, she realised. _I guess MI5_ _really do take Davenport's security seriously_… Gingerly, she removed her arm from Doyle's grasp, then followed McAllister into Davenport's room.

This time, the spy was awake, and looking decidedly better, although that was not hard since he'd appeared to be at death's door the last time she'd seen him. She had the impression she'd interrupted a conversation between him and McAllister, although Davenport's greeting appeared friendly.

"Well, hello. Good to see you." He smiled slowly, and his words, though clear, were slow. _Morphine_, she thought.

"I'm told I owe you my life." He looked uncomfortable. "Thanks."

She smiled and shook her head. "You're welcome, but you should really thank Tanya."

"I will once she comes to visit." Davenport shifted a little and winced. "Jack, are you here for any reason, or did you just feel it was your duty? If it's the latter, you've seen me now, duty over, so feel free to bugger off."

Jack had paced across to the window and was staring out of it blankly. At Davenport's words, his shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.

Behind him, Davenport's eyes flicked instinctively to his wrist, then up and across to the clock on the wall. "By my reckoning, you've got ten minutes." The sardonic tone was back in his voice, and Eames had the sudden feeling she was about to watch yet another visit gone wrong.

"Hmm?"

"Visiting time ends in ten minutes. Go ahead. Get it all out. You're obviously pissed off with me; get it all out of your system. Nothing like a hit of righteous indignation to make you feel good." Davenport relaxed back against the bed as best he could, giving Eames the distinct impression that had he been capable of propping his hands behind his head he would have done so.

Jack continued to face the window.

"Feel good? Fuck you, Drew."

"Thanks, but I've got someone for that already."

"Not for much longer if you carry on like this." Jack was still facing the wall and Eames could see the strain in his shoulders. She was uncertain whether to leave the room, or whether her moving would make the situation worse. She had been in any number of situations like this, but usually her badge gave her the right to intervene.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Jack sighed heavily and rubbed his face. "You know what? You'll like this. It's not the fact you lied to Sienna that gets me. It's not the fact you fucked up her life. It's not the fact you got her shot. It's not the fact that your fucking with her head gave her a drinking problem."

"You missed out…" Davenport began, but Jack whirled to face him and his words died off. The journalist's face, usually so pleasant, was hollow-eyed, dark smudges showing under the rims of his glasses. An ugly combination of exhaustion, both physical and mental, and despairing anger showed clearly across his face, and his fists were clenched.

"It's the fact you lied to me. To me and Tanya. We're your friends, and we trust you, and for two years you let us think that the four of us… had something. That we were friends, that we knew you. Were you laughing at us the whole time, Drew, thinking you were so clever, bringing Sienna over here, that we'd never work out that she was just your bait?"

"What else did you expect?" Davenport's voice was weary, slurred by the drugs. "You've known me over ten years, Tanya for longer. You know who I am and what I do. Why are you surprised?"

"Yeah, see, there, that's it. That's what gets me. I've known you over ten years, and for most of those years, you've been a complete bastard. You drop in, go through my notes to see if I've got any leads for you, eat my food and then fuck off with a smile. Then Sienna gets here, and suddenly you can't keep away. Suddenly it's all, let's go to the pub, let's go out, let's go away for the weekend… Bloody hell."

Jack suddenly laughed, a hollow sound echoing eerily within the room. "You're a fucking spook, why did I think there was ever anything normal about that?"

Davenport sighed and closed his eyes. "Try this. I liked it too. I liked having the three of you around. Why wreck all of that? SiSi and Goren, they were on the rocks anyway. She wanted to get married, he didn't. You know that, I know that, Tanya knows that." He chuckled faintly. "Hell, Tanya probably knows what he said to her when they were shagging, he's all SiSi's talked about for two years. I brought her over here and yeah, I accept responsibility. She wasn't meant to fall for John Durham, she wasn't meant to get shot; least I could do was make it up to her, give her something fun outside of work. I'd opened my mouth, she'd have still been stuck here on a one-year contract, and she'd have had no-one. No friends, nothing but a big mistake."

"Yeah. Her mistake was listening to you. Hers and mine."

"Oh, listening to me has really been a mistake for you, Jack… how many stories have you got on the front page, thanks to me? How much of your house did I pay for?"

Jack's eyes narrowed; clearly that had hit home.

Davenport drew a deep and shuddery breath. "Sometimes, the best favour you can do for people is keep your mouth shut and hope it all works out."

"Thanks for that advice. I'll bear that in mind the next time I want to fuck over one of my friends."

A faint leer crossed Davenport's face. "Well, there was a time you would just have been _fucking_ them…"

Jack gripped the edges of the bedside, causing Eames to rise instantly to her feet, recognising the signs of someone trying to prevent themselves from hitting another person. He practically spat his next words: "Oh, fuck off, Drew. Just fuck off. I don't want to see you, I don't want to hear from you again, and I sure as fuck don't want you anywhere near my family."

"You making decisions for Tanya now?"

Jack grinned, a horribly unhappy expression. "I don't have to, because she and I are married, Drew, and she's always going to stick with me, not you. And when Michael realises that you aren't capable of that, that to you it's just a way of ensuring you've always got someone around to fuck, he'll go, too." He stormed out of the room. Two seconds later, there came a series of dull thuds, followed by someone yelling "_FUCK_!" at the top of their lungs.

She looked across at Davenport, who raised a weary eyebrow. "He always kicks the wall when he gets upset. Could you go and find him before he forgets himself and starts punching the wall? I don't want him holding me responsible if he damages his hands."

She started to say, _How the hell can you be so calm_?, then realised that a lot of the greyness in Davenport's face wasn't due to the drugs.

"Good luck," she threw over her shoulder as she left, realising that it was probably the last time she would see him.

She thought she heard a mutter of "You, too", but couldn't be sure.

As she entered the waiting area, she was greeted by a loud roar of anger, and the sound of chairs being tipped over. Jack, normally so calm and pleasant, was busy kicking over half the chairs in the room. Propped against the wall, Doyle was watching him with the air of a professor observing a particularly interesting species of insect. She took a deep breath and approached. "Jack, this isn't the best way…"

"_Fuck_ the best way!" Jack suddenly dropped into one of the few chairs left standing, and dropped his head into his hands. "Ten years." he mumbled.

"I'm sorry?"

He raised his head and grinned in a ghost of his usual pleasant smile. "Ten years ago, Drew and I lived in flats in an old house in London. He had the one below, I had the one above. I went down to see if he felt like a drink, let myself in with a spare key he'd given me… There was one room he always kept locked, but he'd been showing me how to pick locks, and I figured I'd try out my new skills. Got in there, found it was his office. His computer was switched on."

He chuckled mockingly. "I was a nosy bastard even then, I suppose, and I'd always wondered just what it was he did for a living, so I tried to see if I could guess the password. Wasn't too hard… I knew Drew pretty well, or so I thought. I guessed the password, and found that I'd just tried to access the confidential files of an MI5 agent. He gave me a choice, said it was the best deal he could offer: work for MI5, or go to prison."

"How long did it take you to figure out that he'd left the computer on deliberately?" _Not to mention the rather interesting implications of him giving you a spare key_, Eames privately mused.

Jack chuckled, a hollow sound. "Seven years. Seven fucking years. What could I say by then? I mean, I shouldn't have been trying to break into his computer. And just when I think he's changed…"

"He did it again," Eames completed the sentence.

Jack shook his head and jammed his palms against his eyes. "I don't even really have the right to feel betrayed, that's Sienna's prerogative. She and Drew were nearly inseparable, in fact I used to think that if he was straight… anyway."

He sighed again. "Two years he kept that secret, and he never said a word. I can't even begin to imagine how Sienna felt when she found out."

It occurred to Eames to think that Sienna might have felt better had Jack told her in private what he suspected and let her confront Davenport herself, rather than the very public approach he'd chosen. Had he been looking for revenge, perhaps, for what Davenport had done to him?

His cell phone rang, and he pasted on a bright smile to answer it. "Yes, of course we're coming, just needed to stop by the hospital." He sprang to his feet, heading towards the car and singing a song he'd been playing in the car when he picked her up.

"_Cornered, the boy kicked out at the world, And the world kicked back, a lot fucking harder…" _

In the present, Sienna listened intently, then finished her drink. "I need to be going," she stated firmly, and suddenly stood up to gather her coat. Eames blinked, then realised what the problem was. Sienna was afraid that she, Eames, would start questioning her about how she felt about Davenport.

It must still be a pretty raw wound, she thought. Imagine knowing that for two years, the person you thought was your best friend, someone you could trust, had kept a secret. Had never told you the truth for two years.

And a little voice at the back of Eames' head muttered quietly, _For five years. You ever wonder if that letter you wrote to Deakins is still lying around in a file somewhere_?


	9. Breaking and Entering

**Author's Note**: I thought here might be a good place to share a little about where this fic is going. Part of my reason for writing it in this format of several different characters' viewpoints was for variety and different perspectives on the characters we know and love, and partly it was just that I had so many stories forming in my head about the events and characters in "Bulletproof Armour", I couldn't _not_ write them! That said, I thought people would perhaps want to know that, eventually, the fic will focus in on Sienna and Bobby very intensely. They have some big challenges ahead of them, but I want to set the scene properly… and have a little fun, too.

I take another quick squint round, but everyone's asleep, so I lever up the window to Mrs Hamble's loft and slither in. In the interests of being a good neighbour, I did wander on round there when Jack and I moved in and had a little chat with her about home security like a good concerned neighbour, but she swore blind that she always keeps the door from the loft to the rest of the house padlocked, and she wanted the loft window left a crack open "so that it doesn't go mouldy up there". Fine by me.

And she's right, it's pretty safe, I mean I would know as soon as I stepped, or rather crawled, into the loft if someone else had been in here. I secure the window, making sure that the tiny piece of metal I use to ensure that it _stays_ left open is jammed securely in, and start crawling through to the other side.

It's not like I make a _habit_ of breaking into my neighbours' houses, but you should always know the routes in and out of your own house, just in case someone who doesn't like you comes a-calling. I don't expect that, but I know any number of guys who said that and got badly surprised. My home is as safe as I can make it. I know because I asked Drew to try breaking in; he figured out the route through Mrs Hambles'.

Damn, I'm going to miss Drew, too. If I wasn't currently crawling through along dusty loft floorboards on my hands and knees, I'd be trying to figure out what happens with that. Somehow I don't see him and Jack getting along too well after what happened three days ago, and Jack comes first. First and always. Gotta be that way; your own family, then your friends, then everyone else.

Okay in there, kid? Nearly back home now. Just got to do the tricky part.

When Mrs Hamble had her loft converted, she had windows put in on both sides, which was kind of a waste of money since her son only lived up here for a few months, then decided he'd rather be shacking up with his girlfriend on the other side of town. (I know all this due to the neighbourly chat we had. This was before she stopped speaking to me. Hey, I _told_ her a week in advance we were having that party. I mean, she's deaf, what does she have to complain about?) Makes it a really handy cut-through from the back of the house to the front.

I check the opposite side window carefully. It would be really awkward if I had to go back now… but nope, it's jammed open a crack, just like I left it. Now comes the tricky part.

I cautiously poke my head through the window, and take another quick look around. In London there's always some insomniacs around, but around here it's like at a festival; 4-10am are the dead hours when everyone passes out from the night's partying. It's mostly students, arty types and illegal immigrants round here anyway; Mrs Hamble and Jack and I are probably the oldest people in the street. Maybe we should have thought about that earlier? Nah, the kid will be fine. I know this because I will personally beat the daylights out of anyone who so much as looks at her funny.

Now comes the tricky part. The old houses round here have solid, cast-iron gutters and drainpipes, as good as a ladder to someone with reasonable upper-body strength. And yes, I pointed that out to Mrs Hamble, and did I get thanked? No, I got "I'm not ruining the outside of my house with nasty cheap plastic drainpipes". Suit yourself. Our house _does_ have nasty cheap plastic drainpipes, so that six-foot tall strangers can't go clambering about on them and try breaking in, or in my case, breaking out.

I lever the window open all the way. This is the really tricky part; I need to wriggle out backwards, then feel around with my feet for the bracket of the drainpipe so that I have something to stand on whilst I quickly secure the window, then climb down.

Ordinarily I wouldn't even think twice about this, it's not a patch on an Army training assault course or some of the things I do with my advanced students at the dojo, but as I prepare to open the window, I'm struck with a sudden doubt. Should I be doing this with nine weeks of baby inside me?

There's a time and a place to be having thoughts like this, and it's not three storeys up trying to climb down a drainpipe backwards. I fix the wedge into the frame, and take a careful hold on the thread tied to it, so that I can yank it out and close the window behind me. I prepare to descend, but then another thought hits me, and I have to freeze where I am to process it. It's Jack, and my heart races.

I believe in telepathy. Not in the whole "tell me what card I'm holding now" crap, but I know for a fact that if you spend enough time together you can get so tuned in to another person's mind that you start picking up thoughts and feelings. Happened with my old unit in the Army, happened with Drew back when we were kids, happened with SiSi, happened with Jack. I guess that's why the four of us became such good friends, we were all tuned in. Happened any number of times; I'd think something like "Is that gig on at the Red Lion tonight?" or "Did I remind Leo to bring the training swords for tomorrow's class?", and Jack would say "They've moved the gig to the Coach and Three Horses", or Drew would say he'd seen Leo and mentioned it last week.

But it's always strongest with Jack, and maybe on level I guessed it would be when I met him, maybe it was that persuaded me to given him a chance when he asked me out, never mind the fact he was the worst self-defence student I'd ever trained, plus I used to only date guys who looked like extras from _Mad Max_. With him I get not only thoughts, but feelings too. Sometimes we don't even need to say anything. Gives sex a whole other dimension; I do get why SiSi was so unhappy when she broke up with her guy. If I lost Jack now I'd feel like part of me had gone missing.

Right now, Jack is very, very upset. I try to focus on it, but all I'm getting is that he's upset and afraid. I'm not getting 'danger' or 'hurt' feelings, which is good, but it's so strong all I can think is that I've got to get back to the house as fast as possible. However, I can't do that safely with all this running around in my head, so I visualise a box in my head, then mentally move all these worries – baby, Jack, Drew – into the box, and mark it 'To Be Opened Later'.

I then back swiftly and smoothly out of the window, gripping the frame firmly, and _very_ carefully lower myself down, feeling around with my feet. I make a sudden decision that this is it for the next seven months; no more silly shit. Just take care of myself a bit more until she gets born. I find the bracket, wedge my feet onto it, then carefully tug the thread. The wedge flies out and I hear the window thump down securely, then reel in the wedge, stow it one-handed in my trousers, then shimmy down the drainpipe, landing carefully at the base. I stroll nonchalantly up to the gate – unlike mine, Mrs Hamble's doesn't lock, so it's easy to get out of – then as soon as I'm off the premises, I practically run back round to my house, nearly dropping the key, I'm so desperate to get back in, and nearly trip over a pair of shoes left lying in the hallway. I don't recognise them, and don't care, because Jack is upstairs. I take the stairs two at a time and almost throw myself through our bedroom door.

Jack is lying in bed, facing away from me. His head turns slowly towards me, and, oh shit, I've _never_ seen him look so afraid.

I fling myself into bed with him, yanking the covers away, then pulling them back over both of us. Jack clings onto me, his head burying itself against my chest, and whilst he likes to do that, I've never known him so scared, so clingy before. He's naked – I can feel the warmth of his skin all the way down – and it suddenly feels all wrong to be wearing clothes. I want no barrier between us, and I wriggle out of all of mine as best I can without pushing him off, then as soon as I'm naked too, I wrap myself round him as tight as I can.

Jesus God, he's as tight as a bowstring, muscles all tensed up like piano wire, and this is really not good. Jack _never_ feels like that. Always so relaxed, so calm, not like the aggressive bastards I usually deal with on a daily basis. I stroke him all over, all the bits I can reach. Then I pause, and let my own breathing slow.

In addition to knowing more ways to dismantle, disable and otherwise damage the human body that any one human being maybe should, I'm also a healer, which may sound weird, but it's a long tradition in the martial arts. Makes sense; if you're going to be fighting, you're going to need to know how to fix yourself back up afterwards. Besides, I'm the head of the dojo, and it's my responsibility to my guys to look after them. Aside from First Aid, I'm a practitioner of a Japanese system of healing, Reiki, which is based on using natural energy. I guess it's a little ironic that the same _ki_ I channel to break boards (or heads) is what I'm now going to try to use to help Jack.

It occurs to me to wonder whether I should be doing this when pregnant, but you can give Reiki to pregnant women, so I can't see how it can do any harm for me to be healing with it whilst pregnant. Besides, despite the frigging morning sickness, I feel really… _powerful_ right now. I shift my hands into position, one at the base of his spine, the other stroking gently. I feel a little tingling, and I know it's working. It takes a while, and I'm not sure whether it's due to the energy or the stroking, but I can feel him relaxing.

His head tips up to meet my eyes.

His eyes are so vulnerable. So open. _I love him so much_, I think, and feel a gigantic surge of love. And protectiveness, too. He's not just my husband, now, he's my baby's father. We're tied together for life now, even more than before. Let anything or anyone make him unhappy, and they will have me to deal with.

I just hope I can deal with it. I can solve problems that just need something to be hit really hard. Anything more complex and I struggle.

"I thought I'd lost you," he murmurs softly, so softly I can hardly hear him. I wonder if he's even properly awake.

"You haven't," is all I can think of to say. "I'm here. We're here." I guide his hand down to when the baby is growing.

He closes his eyes again, and relaxes against me. I continue stroking his back – it's calming for _me_, too - and at some point I must have fallen asleep, because when I next look at the clock it's three hours later. Amazingly, I have no morning sickness. Then again, it comes and goes.

We're still curled up together, I realise. Must both be so tired that neither of us could be bothered to move.

Actually, one part of Jack has moved. It suddenly occurs to me that, unlike pretty much everyone else in this house, I didn't get laid last night. Or the night before, or the night before that. I didn't get laid on my birthday. Must be the first time _that's_ happened since I was fourteen.

For some reason or other, I find myself thinking of another time, a while back now. Got drunk at the party, got carried away with one of the American soldiers there…

It occurs to me that if things had gone a bit differently, there might be a third person here, snuggling up to me. Would have been what, nine or ten years old now? For the first time in ages, I wonder what he, she, whatever, would have looked like. A real mixed bag, probably: half-white, half-black on my side, half-white, half-native American on the father's.

And then I remind myself, that had happened, I wouldn't be here, 'cause I'd almost certainly never have met Jack. And if I had, I wouldn't be the same person. More importantly, there was just no way I was going to give birth to a kid and then spend the rest of my life hating it for fucking up my life.

Of course, if my own mother had followed that logic, neither I or my sister would be here. But that doesn't mean I can't learn from her mistakes. Her gigantic, screwed-up mistakes.

Why am I thinking about my mother when I have a naked husband snuggling up to me? I shift a little and wriggle round so I'm facing him. "Morning, gorgeous."

Jack makes a _hhrmph _noise which shows he's waking up. Without moving much, he reaches out for some water (see how considerate he is? How many men think about morning breath? Not enough, I will tell you that). Then he reaches out to cup my face with one hand.

I do love Jack's hands. Quite small, for a man's, I guess you could call them elegant, but strong, and very skilful. Jack is, as I have often thought, a _perfect_ male. If you tried to draw a picture of what Drew would refer to as the "perfect male form", you would in my opinion end up with a picture that looked just like Jack.

Okay, so he's not that tall, but who cares? Naked, he's just amazing. Neat and slim and perfect proportions, without any of Drew's lankiness, or (as I'm going to have to get used to calling him), Sienna's Bobby's heftiness. Just broad enough through the shoulders, nice neat waist, backside just the right size for me to hold on to. Nice smooth skin, and I rub against him a little, enjoying the feel of it.

Perfect skin, too. Nearly every other guy I've seen naked has had enough tattoos and scars that, given time, you could draw yourself a map of their lives. Pub brawl _here_, army tatts _there_ – not that I'm saying I'm any different, you should see _my_ back. But Jack is absolutely flawless. Pale smooth skin with just enough light brown hair to make it clear he's a man. Well, as well as the obvious, and okay, so he's not the biggest in the world, but I could not care less, because in my experience the bigger guys never try as hard. Also, it's less of a feat of hydraulics for a smaller guy to get it up again. And again. And, on one _really_ memorable occasion, again, and again.

I could stare at Jack naked for hours, and on several occasions I have. (Usually because we were so tired out from shagging that neither of us could be bothered to move, even to put clothes on.)

I nuzzle against him, and, remembering what happened a few hours ago, ask him "Are you okay?"

He buries his face in the side of my neck and murmurs, so softly I can hardly hear him, "I woke up and you weren't there."

I feel incredibly guilty. Even though Jack and I have always had a deal that he never questions me running off at all hours of the day or night (and, in return, I never complain about him playing the piano whenever he feels like it), I wish I hadn't gone to check on SiSi and her guy. Should have just stayed here, with him.

I stroke his face, feeling the morning bristles under my palm. "Love, I promise you… for the next seven months, you won't have anything to worry about."

He smiles at that, and I kiss him gently. "I promise you, Jackie, I'm going to be _careful_. First time in thirty-odd years, but I will. No running off and getting into fights until after this baby gets born."

He chuckles and murmurs in that gorgeous Scottish voice I know and love so well: "Right, so _after_ it gets born...?"

"You're going to be staying at home feeding and changing it, whilst I go out to work to support the three of us." Ooh, he's kissing his way across from my neck to my mouth, and damn, that tickles, but in a really good way. Whoa. I think that whole "pregnancy hormones make you horny" thing is true. Not that I usually need any help in that department, but maybe it's just as well Jack has the stamina of a determined rabbit. And great hands to boot.

He's nearly at my mouth, now, and those gorgeous eyes are looking into mine. "A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do, eh?"

I reach out and stroke him, hearing him gasp with pleasure. "Right now _you_ need to do what a man's gotta do…"

I don't manage to get the rest of the words out, because he starts kissing me then, and that's so much more fun than talking, especially when his hand runs all the way up my side in the usual way that means he's about to start playing with my breasts, which I absolutely love… except that they're a bit tender all of a sudden.

I gasp a bit more sharply than usual, and he suddenly freezes. "Should we be doing this?" His voice is quite shy. He knows about the past – he and I don't have secrets – but we haven't really talked all that much about it. Weren't really expecting I'd get pregnant this fast, I suppose… or maybe we just didn't want to think about it.

I stroke his back gently. "Yeah. Don't worry, I asked about it about fifty times at the hospital. We're safe."

I love his smile. I hope our baby inherits that smile. Then the two of us pull ourselves towards each other, wrapping ourselves up in each other, as Jack's mouth moves down my neck and onto my chest…

…and then the fucking phone rings. "Don't answer it," I mumble, but it rings and rings and Jack eventually picks it up, and suddenly freezes. I can feel him tensing up again.

"Okay, yes, I'll be downstairs shortly," he replies, and I can feel my heart sinking, even more when he gets up and starts looking for clothes.

"Jack…" I begin, but he turns round, and his face is so soft and sad I can't say anything.

"It's Five," he replies, and I think, _well, of course it is_. Then a really bad thought happens. "It's not… Drew's okay?"

"They didn't say anything about him." He pauses to think, and it's like I can see him snapping back being into Jack McAllister, journalist. "I think they'd tell us… but I promise I'll ask when I get there."

"Can't you at least have a shower first?"

"No. I get the feeling they'll come in here and drag me out if I take too long." He looks so sad, and then his face suddenly goes solemn, like a mask, and his eyes go hard and cold, like he's already preparing to do whatever it takes to get through the next few hours. It scares me. I've seen Drew with the same expression, but it looks _wrong_ on Jack.

"Just wait. One second, whilst I get dressed." I jump up and throw some clothes on, and follow him down the stairs, and kiss him, and in less than a minute he's in the back of a car heading for Thames House, and I feel alone, because, despite the fact that SiSi and her guy and Alex are still in the house, I _am_ alone.

No Drew. Soon, no SiSi either.

I look down at my belly, and remind myself that our baby's got to be number one priority, and that cheers me up a bit.

Still... I can't help thinking.

Say whatever you like about him, and I certainly did a few days ago (might need to apologise, I guess…), Drew's the closest I've got to family apart from Jack. He's been there for me through thick and thin, and I owe him the same. If I was in hospital, he'd be there until I woke up to be sure I was safe.

I ought to go check on him.


	10. Before the Wee Small Hours

**Author's** **Note**: This chapter is rated M. Please read accordingly.

Almost timidly, he entered her bedroom. Sienna was, indeed, asleep. Moving on autopilot, he tried to avoid waking her, but he was still learning the layout of this room, and forgot until it was too late that Sienna's bedroom had a creaky floorboard just beside the bed, in _exactly _the spot where someone weighing over 200 pounds would step on it and wind up waking their partner. Sienna rolled over, mumbling, then sat up as she became more alert and saw that it was him.

"Hey." She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock. "You were out there a while."

"I was thinking."

"Uh-huh".

So wary, now, he thought. Or maybe not. Wariness implied trying to avoid something. Sienna's face now had the unflinching determination of someone who had had the worst happen, survived, and now knew for a fact that she could cope with it. The sweet, trusting Sienna he had known was gone for good… _I'm rambling,_ he realised, and marshalled his thoughts.

"What were you thinking about?"

An awkward silence fell. _How the hell do I say this_?

Sienna's voice broke into his thoughts. "Let me tell you a story."

He obligingly climbed into bed next to her and rolled onto his side. Fond memories of the last time that had happened warred with the knowledge that the evening so far made it unlikely that this one was going to begin with "I'm alone in my hotel room, taking off my bra, when suddenly there's a knock at the door…" Suddenly, she smiled at him softly, and she was his Sienna again, his loving beautiful Sienna. His mate.

"Three years ago, I was sitting in a bar with some friends, including a short blond cop I happened to be _very _good friends with, when we'd all met for a quick drink after work. As usually happens when three or more women are gathered together, we started telling tales of the men in our lives. Now, she has this big, smart, slightly weird partner who does his own thing all the time, and apparently, one day he rushed off to confront a man about to kill his own childen with a shotgun, not stopping to put on a vest or anything… he just went in there alone and left her outside, not knowing whether she would ever see him again…"

He squirmed uncomfortably as she continued, "…and suddenly, I had to ask her to stop, because I was feeling ill. I pretended it was because Cosmopolitans don't mix well with Bud - we'd been to a few bars by then - but actually it was because I realised exactly how she felt, because I would have felt the same. And then I went home that night, and looked at her big, smart, very handsome partner asleep in our bed, and it was then I realised that I'd fallen in love with him."

She paused and added as an aside. "Maybe I should have figured that out earlier, but we kept having lots of hot sex, and I kept getting distracted. And so, over the next few weeks, I waited for the right time to say it, but the right time never came, until one rainy night the following month, we went out for dinner and ended up at an Italian restaurant. I knew there was something bothering you, but I figured you'd tell me in your own time. Then I realised, if both of us kept waiting for that, we'd be looking at each other for ever and never telling each other anything that really mattered. So I got up, told my friend's very big, very smart, very handsome partner that I loved him. Just in passing, and then I went to the bathroom to give him space. And whilst I was in there, I had this horrible thought. What if the reason he looked so thoughtful was that he wanted to end it? What if this was our last night together?"

He froze. It had never occurred to him to wonder what Sienna had thought about his behaviour that night. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and he suddenly realised he'd instinctively reached out to hold hers and reassure her. She smiled at him again, and he wriggled a little with embarassment, knowing what was coming next.

"Then it turned out that he'd spent the whole evening wondering if I was pregnant, because the birth control I use stops my periods, and once we'd got that sorted out, he asked me to move in with him, and I accepted in a New York minute, but I'm never going to forget how much courage it took me to get out of that bathroom and face the unknown, because all I could think about was the worst explanation, and the thought of losing you when I'd just found you hurt like nothing else I'd ever experienced."

She rolled onto her side, and reached out to stroke his face gently. "The point of this rather long and rambling story, Bobby, is that for us, shit happens if we're not straight with each other. What is it that's bugging you? I mean, I know I'm not the same person you fell for… but I can't go back…" Her voice was steady, but to his eyes her vulnerability was clear. He would always be able to hurt her, he realised, and the realisation was in some ways a perverse comfort - she was not invulnerable, she _did_ need him - but mostly, it was a grave responsibility. And also, he realised, the reverse was true. She would always be able to hurt him. Robert Goren would always, now, have someone (apart from his mother) who could get through his armour; his days of keeping aloof from humanity were gone for good.

"How can I say this?" he began, then stopped, trying to find the right words.

She held his gaze steadily. "Please… just tell me the truth."

He took a deep breath, then blurted out: "It's not really you I have a problem with. It's me. You've become more like me."

***

And, as if by magic, things make a lot more sense.

Ever since I got back, Bobby has seemed so weighed down, so… flat, compared to how I used to know him. At first I thought it was the same as with me. My depression lifted as soon as my mate returned to me, and I'd thought it would be the same for him, but now I realise that this runs deeper.

Mid-life crisis? Maybe. Or possibly that wretched Nicole Wallace's reappearance has reminded him that, sometimes, he and Eames go too far in screwing around with people's heads.

I take his hand. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I need you to explain it to me," I reply, in my best don't-think-you-can-blind-me-with-fancy-explanations voice (works a treat on Crime Analysts who are too smart-ass for their own good).

"It sounds so… stupid. When I was with you before… you were young and innocent…"

"And now I'm old and twisted?"

Bobby looks irritated, then realises what I'm doing by interrupting him and cracking jokes in the middle of a Serious Conversation. "You're trying to tell me that you think I'm taking this too seriously."

"I think you're making it into more than it is. So I can't be your moral compass any more. So you can't look at me and think that at least there's one person in the world who's still sweet and innocent. So what? You're a good person, Bobby. You don't need someone else to act as your conscience."

"I don't know if I believe that any more." He heaves a heavy sigh. "Sienna… I get under their skin. I see inside their heads, and I understand why they do what they do, and I could offer sympathy, and then I think of the victims, and I use what I know to screw with their heads until they crack. You're right, I am a headfucker. It's what they've always called me, and it's what I am."

"Bobby, that's your job. Police officers all over the world do that. You're just better at it than most." I pause. "What brought this on?"

He waves a hand. "Just… stuff. Things getting on top of me."

Yeah, right. Mental note to self: find Mike Logan tomorrow, and see if I can either charm or bribe him into spilling a little dirt on what's been going on whilst I was in London. Something has triggered this and I need to know what… but for now, Bobby needs reassurance and love.

"Maybe. But…" I search for the right words. "If someone kills, or commits a major crime, they should go to jail. You're protecting people who are innocent by keeping the guilty away from them."

"I used to tell myself that. Now it doesn't work, and all I can think about is that I'm just a complete bastard, that the real reason I joined the police was so I could indulge my own liking for manipulating people less smart than me."

Oh, ye gods. I could spend days refuting that argument, but I'm tired and it's late at night, so I go for bluntness. "Well, it's possible for someone to serve the cause of good whilst being a complete bastard."

Bobby snorts with laughter, then turns serious again. I decide to cut this conversation short. "Bobby… what you and I have now is a partnership of equals, and sometimes I am going to come across as a hard-assed bitch-" another snort of laughter "-because that's now part of my job, but that's not who I am, and I'm only like that when I have to be, and so are you. There's much more to you than "Detective Goren the headfucker". You're my Bobby, and you can be gentle and loving and funny, and you make me happy, and I love you."

Bobby smiles for the first time this evening, and reaches for me. It's not sexual at first, just a comfortable cuddling and reassurance, but soon I'm starting to think how nice Bobby's kisses on my forehead feel, and how much nicer it will feel if I just tip my head back a little and kiss him gently on the mouth. His tongue gently laps against my lips and I open my mouth, at the same time snuggling deeper into his arms. His breathing is getting heavier, and I can feel his arousal starting to build. I smile wickedly at him and murmur: "How about a quick demonstration of that last part?"

***

He matched her grin. "How quick?"

"That depends on you."

"Actually," he slid onto his back. "It depends on you." He reached out and cupped her face with one huge hand. "Sienna… please…"

She understood, needing no more words. As he watched eagerly, his love slowly drew her negligee over her head, revealing the top half of her magnificent body, toned arms and generous breasts. He was rapt, held in place by anticipation, aching for her touch already as she moved towards her, her lower body still concealed by the covers. He moaned softly as she drew back the covers, revealing his body to her and pausing to sweep her eyes up and down his body. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and he saw her nipples harden in the night air.

Gracefully, she straddled him, her naked body on top of his, her knees planted on either side of his waist. The sweet pleasure of submitting to his lover's lead was not one he often indulged in - more often it was he who pleasured her - but increasingly Sienna had begun to master him, to pleasure him until he was the one crying out, begging, "Don't stop… _please_". Her lips found his and she kissed him long and hard, guiding his hands to her breasts, and he knew that tonight his lover would take all of his fears and worries from his mind. He shivered at the thought of how intense the pleasure could be, would be, as his red-headed love used her knowledge of him to ruthlessly drive him to the edge, ecstatic with desire.

Suddenly, she slid backwards to lie between his legs, her mouth finding his erection and teasing it larger with skilful licks and sucks, darting little runs of her tongue that tickled unbearably. He already sensed that tonight Sienna would not allow him to do the same for her, that she would stay in control, finding her pleasure in reducing him to near mindless arousal and bliss. She slithered forward, and pressed her breasts either side of his slick shaft, boldly meeting his gaze, as if daring him to try to come before she was ready. Before he could get near that point, she lifted herself up and pushed herself forward to straddle his hips, just a hairs'-breadth above where their bodies would touch.

He would swear that he felt her heat against his erection, but as he lifted his hips she lifted hers and smiled evilly, then bent down to possess his mouth with hers. He pushed his tongue firmly between her lips, mimicking the hard thrusts he could give her, would give her as soon as… _oh God_… Sienna's strong fingers grasped him hard and guided him inside her. She began to rock gently on top of him, pleasuring herself, and he smiled to see her upper body flush with arousal, her lips wet and dark. He reached up to cup her breasts, then rolled the nipples between his fingers. She began to ride him in earnest, thrusting with her hips and moaning now, crying out loudly, as her orgasm built, and his with hers, and as they reached the point of no return together Sienna locked eyes with him and he came naked in front of her, looking deep into her eyes in primal unity.

As she collapsed on top of him, groaning with satisfaction, he murmured into her ear "I love you, and you are the most incredible woman I've _ever_ had."

She raised her head long enough to reply hoarsely. "I love _you_, and you fill me like a stallion. Biggest man I've _ever _had. Biggest and best."

He wrapped his arms tight round her and they remained that way until, slowly, they fell apart, and then into contented sleep.

Six hours later, he woke to the familiar scent of Sienna making coffee. He showered and joined her at the table, where she was chewing a toasted bagel and reading some case notes. She pushed a mug at him. He added enough milk to cool it to being drinkable, then chugged half of it. She raised an eyebrow. "In a hurry?"

He smiled at her tenderly. "Wish I wasn't… but we've got this big case to crack, and something tells me it's going to get a lot more complicated."

She tipped her head on one side. "Is this the one with all four of you? Must be interesting, you and Logan working the same case…"

He grinned. Logan had settled in well, but the two of them occasionally found themselves locked in rivalry that was _just _on the right side of friendly. "Yeah. Still, at least I know Eames is on my side."

Sienna smiled back. "Yeah. Hold that thought, Bobby, and remember - if she and I are on your side, you must be a good guy."

"Sometimes I think you both just put up with me so you have someone around to fetch coffee."

"I'm sure she'd say that five years of fetching coffee _means_ something." They smiled at each other, not needing to say aloud how very much more than that Eames' friendship meant to him. Sienna stood up and gathered her papers, checking her purse for change. "See you later. Now go to work and do good in the world."

He smiled and did as he was told.


	11. Pulling the Puzzles Apart

**Warning**: This contains explicit (though vanilla) m/m sex. Please read appropriately.

"_I was just guessing_

_At numbers and figures_

_Pulling the puzzles apart. _

_Questions of science, science and progress,_

_Do not speak as loud as my heart…_

_Nobody said it was easy,_

_No-one ever said it would be this hard._

_Oh, take me back to the start."_

Coldplay, "The Scientist" (album "A Rush of Blood to the Head").

Another day, another wasted set of hours spent flat on my back staring at the wall.

Well, okay. It's not like I don't have books, my IPod, which I'm listening to now, a stack of movies and the portable DVD player from mine and Mike's flat. Pissed off as I was when Jonathan House greeted me this morning with "Doing a little self-indulgent wall-gazing?", he had a point. Almost makes me wish I hadn't replied: "No, I'm working on a little fantasy I have going involving you, me, Daniel Craig, and a vat of ice-cream".

I'm lying about the fantasy, but having the doc around does at least make being stuck in hospital a more aesthetically pleasing experience. Who doesn't love a pair of blue eyes staring at them? Even if I do occasionally feel like an insect on a slide. More entertaining, too. It's rare I meet anyone else with such a natural gift for sarcasm. Perceptive bastard, too. After I had that black night, two days ago, he took one look at me and doubled the pain medication, thank you, God. (I'm trying not to think about what I must have looked like, but I've seen a few corpses in my life, and I'm guessing there was a certain resemblance.)

But let's face it, I can stare at the wall, stare at books, talk to Mike, talk to the doc, _whatever_, it doesn't change the fact that I'm in limbo right now and I want out, but I'm stuck here until my arm and shoulderblade finish knitting back together. I don't want to be an invalid. I don't want sympathy, or sick leave, or flowers. I just want to get back to work and back to Mike.

Wish Tanya would come and visit, though. Maybe pregnancy isn't agreeing with her? Who knows. I'm still trying to get my head around the idea of Tanya pregnant. I mean, intellectually I've always known she was female, and it's not like I've ever confused her with a man, she's just always been _Tanya_, one of a kind. I try to grasp the concept of a baby Tanya, and decide that's enough mental exertion for one day.

Assuming I still have a job. The most I can get out of anyone is that I'm officially on sick leave, which does at least have the advantage that they can't easily fire me. Whether I will go back to my old job, whether I even still _have_ a job… who knows? And I can't find out until I can get back out there and start getting people to talk to me.

There are not words for the extent to which I hate the fact that I can't move right now. My entire life, I hated to be held still in one place…

… and I go back into another memory. I'm not tripping so much any more; maybe I'm getting used to the meds, maybe whatever they had to give me to get me through the operations is out of my system, who knows? More control, now, but I still find myself going back into the past, over and over again, looking for… something. I don't know what. The answer to why I ended up here, maybe.

It's four months ago, and I'm running fast through London's streets. I know this area nearly as well as any cabbie; it's home turf for all four of us. Jack and I lived here a while back, Tanya settled here when she got her job as a self-defence instructor, I found SiSi a flat near here when she moved.

Just as well. I'm already late for Mike's publisher's summer ball, and if I don't get there soon… well, I _will_ get there soon. I can run _really_ fast, which is a useful talent in my line of work. I'm drawing some attention, but Londoners are used to people doing weird things, and a thin man with a backpack running through the streets doesn't rate much above the odd stare. (Let me rephrase that. A thin, _white_, man running through the streets with a backpack doesn't rate that much above the odd stare.)

I flow fast through the city, heart beating, lungs taking in air efficiently, moving in time with its rhythm. My eyes automatically scan for obstacles; a pedestrian crossing here, a woman on a bike there, and my legs move me out of the way without needing to pause for thought. My ears listen for sounds – cars, people, bikes – and I'm already calculating how many steps to take, exactly how far to jump, so that I don't waste a second, not a bit of energy, and I'm getting closer to the hotel; there are more people around in this area, and I slip in between them. Half of them don't even notice I'm there, which is exactly as it should be.

The hotel lies dead ahead, but there's no way I can go in dressed like this, and there's not so much privacy around here, too many cars, too many people…

Far too many people. Fuck, did _every_ company in London decide to throw a party tonight? The streets are thick with braying idiots in tuxedos and overly thin women in silk dresses. I take one look at the mob ahead of me and realise I stand no chance of getting through that lot.

However, this is not a problem for me. For most people it would be, but most people move only in two dimensions. Start thinking in three, and a whole new world opens up. Take that alley, over there, with that convenient fire escape running all the way up to the top of the building. I mentally map out the streets from here to the hotel, and if I'm right, all I need to do is go up and across and I'll be there. Providing I can get back down again, but that's a problem to solve at a later time.

I slip into the alley, unnoticed by anyone around me, then secure the backpack tightly, and start climbing.

I love this. Tanya and I used to do this all the time, when we were younger. These days they call it free running. We just used to call it "looking for trouble", and in truth that was a more accurate way of phrasing it, since real free runners don't generally break into empty houses, crash parties via the window, or find themselves scrapping with the door staff when said gatecrashing doesn't go according to plan.

I mean, it's not that we _wanted_ to cause trouble. It's just that we liked to see interesting things, and sometimes other people did unreasonable things to try to stop us, like putting locked doors and bouncers in front of them. I never did see a locked door without wanting to find out what was behind it.

Up, up and over. I make it all the way up to the roof, scramble across the gutter, and there, three buildings in front of me, is the hotel's roof. I give it a quick once-over to see if there are any of the staff up there (hotel roofs are popular places for staff, especially the illegals, to hang out and snatch a quick smoke or a nap), but I don't see anyone. Luckily for me, all the buildings around here have flat roofs, and it's pretty simple to get from one side to another. I do a quick scout around, and spot a convenient back alley near the hotel's kitchens, which will do just fine for getting changed in. I wonder if Jack remember to put a water bottle in this bag? It's a hot night and I'm sweating like you wouldn't believe, which will not endear me to Mike.

Actually, what will not endear me to Mike is that – shit! – I'm nearly an hour late. I resist the urge to think bad things about SiSi, although she really could have picked a better night to get smashed. I hope she's alright… and suddenly I have a slight twinge, a thought at the back of my head trying to get out. I shove it back in there. Haven't got time right now to think about anything else, and I prepare to descend. The only fire escape begins three floors below me – too far to jump in one go without risking breaking a leg – but fortunately there's a window with a small ledge about six feet down.

I'm going to have to hang over the edge, then feel around with my feet for the window ledge beneath, and hope _really_ hard that it isn't greasy or slippery, otherwise they will be finding my broken body next to the bins tomorrow morning, which is not the way I would choose to go. I _could_ try looking for another way down, but the roof is gigantic, and there are so many cooling fans and chimneys up here it would take ages to pick my way round in search of another way down…

That would be the safe thing to do.

Fuck that.

As I turn to grip the gutter, ready to lower myself down, I catch a faint glimpse of London's streets stretching away in front of me, and I can't help grinning. Partly it's adrenaline, partly it's just that I love this city. I was not born here, but I often think that I should have been.

I remember the story of a First World War poet I studied at school, of how he was once visiting a friend back home in England when he was asked what he was fighting for. He bent down, picked up a handful of soil, and replied "This". I know exactly where he was coming from. Despite the oath I swore when I joined Five, I really don't care that much about protecting the welfare of an elderly half-German pensioner and her bigoted husband, and frankly I doubt Queen Liz spends much time wondering if _I'm_ all right.

Politicians I don't give a fuck for, and as for England… Well, I was born here, but had I been born in France no doubt I'd be defending the safety of the French state, and feeling about the same level of affection for it; how can you feel anything for an abstract noun? But London is my home. I would willingly die to defend it, and on several occasions I nearly have. If my work for Five has made it even a marginally better or safer place, well, I count that an achievement.

I shouldn't really, but I take just a second to stare out at my home, knowing that under the walls of the buildings I'm seeing and in the streets around them are hundreds, thousands of people. All those different lives; families, lovers, people getting ready to go out, people staying in with a bottle of wine and a movie, all the little ordinary lives… and also, as I know only too well, terrorists, criminals and murderers. Organised crime and the wrecked lives of the people it touches. Somewhere out there tonight, someone in London will be attacked, someone will be raped, and someone will be selling drugs or another person's body.

It happens, and you can't let it get to you. Got to hold it in balance. On the one hand, the law-abiding majority, on the other, the criminal scum. In the middle, me, doing my best to ensure that ne'er the twain shall meet whilst trying to stay alive.

Enough with the fucking philosophy; I'm late for Mike.

I climb halfway over the roof, take a deep breath, then let myself hang out into space. One advantage of being thin; I can support my own weight for some time, although I really, really hope I can find this window ledge soon…

I feel around with my feet frantically, getting nowhere and trying desperately not to let my heart race or my hands start sweating. Finally I take another deep breath and let go with one hand. This lengthens my reach a bit more, and I feel the blissful solidity of the ledge beneath my feet. Panic averted. I wedge the tips of the fingers on my free hand into a gap in the wall, plant my foot firmly on the ledge, then let go of the gutter and let my weight drop onto the ledge.

Suddenly, I find myself staring a naked man in the eye.

The window must belong to one of the hotel rooms, and it's occupied. By two people, I presume, based on the… _condition_ he's in. Either that or hotel TV porn has a lot to answer for, though I'm guessing he was coming over to draw the curtains. I'm not sure whom my sudden appearance is a bigger shock for, although for one of us it nearly has fatal consequences. Fortunately, I manage to grab the edge of the window in time to stop myself falling off into space. I recover, wave cheerfully, and quickly make the jump to the fire escape and out of his evening.

From there it's a simple matter of climbing down the escape and into the alley, which is conveniently deserted. I take a quick look around, then strip briefly, give myself a quick rub-over with the towel (Jack didn't remember any water; honestly, you can't get the help these days) and climb back into the tuxedo. I catch sight of myself in a window and grin, then grin more widely. I'm as high as a fucking kite on adrenaline and London, which feels great, but it's no use right now.

Think, Drew. Think business consultant. Important, vaguely apologetic that a call from an overseas associate… no, scratch that, not sympathetic enough… a call from an elderly, frail parent delayed his arrival, and of course the taxi couldn't get anywhere near the front of the building, so I've had to walk, hence the fact I'm sweaty and out of breath. I take a deep breath and let that personality settle over me. Slow down. Walk respectably, like the only journey you make is between the office, home, and the airport, like you never sometimes have to run for your life down dark alleys. Like you don't have a uncomfortable light feeling under your arm where your gun should be. Respectable, Drew. Respectable.

I feel around for the invite, and experience the sinking feeling of the sudden realisation that Mike has both of them.

Oh well, just have to persuade the staff to go and look for him. I take another look at myself – not perfect, but it will do – and start to run out of the alley, then catch myself, and force myself to stride self-importantly.

I'm nearly at the hotel entrance, and I'm already composing my speech to the door staff, when an angry voice interrupts me: "Where the fuck have you been?"

I whip round and Mike is there.

He looks… _stunning_ is the only word I can think of. Mike in a tux. Wow. I'm lost for words.

He isn't. "Where the _fuck_ have you been? Do you know how many times I've tried to ring you? I was beginning to think you'd got lost, I was coming to look for you." As if to prove his point, my mobile gives its _missed call_ beep from the inside pocket of my suit jacket.

"I tried to ring you earlier but you weren't answering…" I begin, then stop. Mike looks so pissed off, and worse, so disappointed, that I start to feel as though my heart is about to drop out of my ribcage and go bouncing around on the floor.

If in doubt, seize the initiative. I take Mike by the shoulders, which are rock-solid with tension, not a good sign, look him as deep in the eye as I can manage, and give it my best shot: "Is there any chance at all that I could say right now that's a really good explanation for me being late and that I'm incredibly sorry and that we could go in there right now and have a good evening and afterwards I'll make it up to you in whatever way you choose?" I'm nearly stammering by the end.

Fuck it, why does Mike have this effect on me? (Would I want it any other way?)

Mike looks at me with that same mixture of anger and disappointment for a good few minutes longer, and part of me cannot help but notice how exceptionally gorgeous he looks angry, but most of me is starting to feel like I've completely screwed up, and, worse, I can think of no way in which I can make it better, other than hoping Mike is a nicer human being than me. I look at Mike looking at me like that, and I have that same feeling I had four months ago when I got that phone call from Jamaica, that utter panic that suddenly he might not be there, _fuck it, no, I'd do anything, don't go, please_…

And at the back of my head, there's that little twinge again, and a little voice muttering: _You did that to her_.

And then Mike grins, and kisses me lightly, and grabs my hand to pull me forward, and all I can feel is utter relief. Thank fuck. Thank fuck Mike is so understanding, because I really don't know what I'm doing.

I would happily keep the kiss going longer – in fact I would happily skip the whole evening and go straight to the making-up sex - but Mike is already tugging me towards the hotel.

"It had better be a good explanation, and you had better be very, very apologetic," he murmurs, as we step through into the building. Still holding hands; why the fuck not?

"It will be," I reply, mentally crossing my fingers. Mike and I don't have secrets, and he's always tried to get on with Tanya, Jack and SiSi, but… well, they're my friends, not his, and he and SiSi have never been too comfortable round each other. Here's hoping the night goes well enough that he'll accept "SiSi got drunk and I had to take her home" as an apology.

"Good. Now remember…" He wags a finger at me playfully.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mutter. "I've got to be respectable all night: no starting any fights, no mentioning the war, no arguing with Salman Rushdie, no shagging in the toilets…"

Mike grins evilly in a way that has an unfortunate effect on my attempts to look respectable. "Oh, I don't know about that last one."

I fight the urge to kiss him and then drag him off somewhere quiet and private, and settle instead for murmuring, "I _have_ been a terrible influence on you, haven't I?"

"Corrupted me completely." Mike grins, and again I feel that thought at the back of my head, struggling to get out, but I push it back down, knowing that soon, I'll have to listen to that little voice, but not right now. Now, it's Mike's time.

Back in the present, I force myself to continue to remember the rest of that night. Not easy, but there was one part of it I've relived very often. I grin as the memory comes to me…

Much later that night, so much later it's morning, Mike and I stagger into our flat. It's already starting to turn light, far off in the distance, and both of us are feeling that weird feeling where you're simultaneously utterly knackered and ready to drop, and far too high to even _think_ of resting.

"What a night!" Mike's eyes are bright. He's practically glowing with happiness, and I am thrilled that tonight went well and that I didn't manage to fuck it up completely. (Also that he accepted my explanation for being late with a smile, although that may have been because I waited until we were both on our fifth drink of the evening and decidedly merry.)

He was amazing. Life and soul of the party, and for once I just sat back and watched as everyone else circled round him, fascinated. Mike is the middle child in his family, and despite some of the media attention round his last book, still not used to having people hanging on his every word.

Not surprising that they do, though. Young, good-looking, witty, articulate, compassionate, who wouldn't be fascinated by that? (Why the hell he is with me is one of life's little mysteries.) The whole "black and gay" thing doesn't hurt either, given how right-on the literary crowd in London likes to consider itself to be.

I smirk a little as I wonder how many of them actually think about what that entails. It's a sad truth that many people in modern society can accept the fact of men being gay, so long as we hide the fact we actually have sex with each other.

Just as well they didn't see what happened about halfway through the evening…

… "We shouldn't be doing this," Mike murmurs, as I pull him along the corridor and away from the rest of the party. It's halfway through the evening. The food has been eaten, the wine has been drunk, the music is playing, and it's so noisy and so busy that no-one will notice us sneaking off for a few minutes.

I pause, and murmur into his ear: "Yeah, that's half the fun."

"Drew…"

"What?" I smile as seductively as I can manage, and love the way his pupils practically dilate at the sight. I glance along the corridor, and can see and hear no-one. We're safe. "It's not _my_ fault you're looking so fucking hot that if we don't do this _now_, I'm likely to take you right there and then against the wall, right in front of…"

My words are cut off by Mike gripping my shoulders, and pushing _me_ up against the wall, his powerful rugby-player's build easily pinning me, our bodies pressed together. I moan softly in pleasure as his mouth pushes against my ear and he murmurs: "Oh, all _my_ fault, is it? Looked in a mirror lately? You think you're the only one trying to restrain himself here?"

I can't resist smirking, "Well, to judge by what I've got pressing against my thigh, I'd say not."

Almost before I know it, Mike's lips are fastened on mine, his arms round my back, my arms going round him, feeling the muscles in his back bunch as he grips me tightly. I return the kiss with interest, and our tongues duel briefly before I remember that this is Mike's night, and open my mouth wider to let him in. Our bodies press tightly together, rubbing hard, nothing respectable about this kiss, and I feel behind me for the storeroom door.

By nature I tend to be something of an opportunist, and my radar for "convenient places for a quick shag" is pretty good by now. I scoped out the storeroom a while back, when the night was yet young. Fucking in toilets is all very well, but they're not what you would call private, and I'm old enough now that the chance of getting arrested for indecency no longer adds to the thrill.

In any case, I need to start making up to Mike for letting him down earlier tonight. I open the door one-handed, and the two of us don't so much step in as fall through in, crashing against the wall, since neither of us can manage to break away from the other.

Fuck, but Mike feels good. So warm, so alive, so strong, so male. So very, very good. For a brief few seconds, I gain enough possession over myself to pull away long enough to bolt the door from the inside, then Mike pulls me back against him, and I writhe shamelessly in his arms. I can feel him getting harder and harder as our hips rub against each other, and I can feel myself getting harder too, especially as he thrusts his hands down between us, starting to undo my belt, pausing to reach down and rub hard through the cloth of my trousers, so hard I have to suppress a whimper.

"Jesus _God_, Mike…" I breathe into his ear, then catch my breath as he undoes my zip and reaches in, and I thrust hard against his hand. His breathing is coming fast now, little delicious pants against my neck. I break out of our embrace and lean back against the wall, putting enough space between us that I can slip his jacket off, unfasten his bow tie and start undoing all the buttons on his shirt.

"What…" he begins, then stops and groans softly as I lean back into him again, this time taking the lead myself as I nip softly at his ear and let one hand slide up his belly, up golden skin and taut, flat muscle until I reach a tiny brown nipple, already hardened into a taut bead of warm, sensitive flesh. I play with it mercilessly as I murmur in his ear: "I need to apologise to you…"

I pull back and look him in the eyes, loving the wild, hungry look in them. "Consider this my apology."

I start kissing my way down his chest, stopping to take each nipple between my lips and suck hard enough to draw another groan for each one, and I could take a whole day just to do this alone, because Mike's chest is incredible to look at, but at the back of my head is the knowledge that if we're gone for too long, we'll be missed. I don't care if everyone gossips about us, but he probably will. He's not ashamed about being out, or gay, but I know he hates to have people define him by it. _One of many things I love about him_, I think as I reach the patch of dark hair just about his belt.

"_Drew_…" There is no sound on God's earth better than my name in Mike's mouth when we do this, I think, as I unfasten his belt and undo his fly, and take him in my mouth, feeling an electric thrill go through him as the sound of my name turns into a gasp, then a series of rhythmic moans, in time with each lick of my tongue, each suck, each little stroke of my fingers against his soft skin. "Drew, oh God, oh fuck…"

I pause and look up, grinning wickedly, and mutter around him: "Too much? You want me to stop? Because I _can_ stop, Mike, if you want…" and I lift my mouth away from him, ignoring the desperate thrust of his hips back towards me.

"Fucking _tease_," he groans, and glares down at me, and ooh, I'm going to pay for that sometime, but not tonight, I think smugly, as I take him back in my mouth, licking harder, faster, because it's time this moved on. If only because I am so ready for it myself I feel like I'm about to burst out of these fucking trousers. I feel Mike's hands on my shoulders, and know instinctively that he wants more, he's ready too, and stand up, only to have him pull me hard against me, so hard he nearly knocks the breath out of me, but his eagerness feels incredible and I yield willingly to his kiss, his hands roaming over me, stripping me of my jacket, tie and shirt.

I shiver a little as the air hits my skin, then shiver even more as Mike's eyes roam over me. I'm not in bad shape; nature intended me to be thin and wiry, and a combination of an active job and regular training sessions at Tanya's dojo keeps me that way. Mike's gaze is possessive, his eyes saying only too clearly, _you're mine_, and I am, just as he is _mine_, that muscled body all mine, as I return his gaze, devouring him with my eyes. Then it's my turn to be gasping with pleasure as he undoes my belt and fly, lifting me out, his strong hands finding all the right places to stroke, to caress and rub and fondle, until I find myself breathing "Stop… Mike, _stop_, that's too good… fuck it, I want to last longer, _ah_, God… "

"What do you want, Drew?" Mike's eyes are intense, green and gold, staring into mine.

I meet my gaze with my own hunger, and breathe, "Whatever _you_ want. Right now, whatever you want."

He hesitates, and I know by sheer instinct what he wants, and love him for being strong enough even now to wonder if he should ask for it. Mike knows my past, and being with him, letting him heal me, has done more for me that any number of counselling or psychotherapy sessions ever could.

I take the choice out of his hands as I slither round in his embrace, turning my back to him, pausing only long enough to mutter: "Durex and lube in the left hand pocket of my trousers…"

Mike chuckles softly. "Always prepared." I feel his hand slip into my pocket, pausing wickedly to give me a hard stroke through the lining, so that my back arches and I have to restrain myself from crying out. I feel him pull back a little, hear rustling, and force myself not to turn round, because the suspense makes it even better. I feel him pull my trousers down, the cool slick of lube against my skin, then Mike's hand reaches round to slide a condom onto me and fuck, the suspense is _killing_ me, but in a good way. Then I feel his hands grip my hips, the tip of his erection against me, and I hiss softly in ecstasy as he presses gently inside me.

For the longest time I wouldn't do this with anyone, but Mike is not my uncle, and the exquisite care he takes not to hurt me could never trigger any flashbacks. Too careful, I think in ecstatic frustration, and brace myself against the wall and thrust my hips back against his, so that all of him is inside me, and his first thrust feels so good I nearly come on the strength of that feeling alone, but force myself not to, to hold on to that little bit of control…

Then I feel the sudden shock of his hand gripping me, my erection gripped firmly in that powerful hand, and nearly scream in pleasure, the combination of strong hand and powerful thrusts just in the right place almost too good, too good for me to last long, and I can feel Mike nearly there, feel his final rhythm building, and it's finally too good, too much for my nerves to bear, too good to resist any longer, and I come so hard I feel like I'll never stop, the only thing I'm capable of registering other than the sheer ecstasy of coming against Mike's hand is his ecstatic groans as I feel him come deep in me, gripping me so hard with his other hand I know I'll have bruises there tomorrow, and I don't care.

Mike collapses against my back, and our hearts hammer in unison, breathing together in deep, ragged gasps, as he lets go of me and slides his hand up my belly to caress my chest. His hand reaches all the way up, and I dip my head to take each of his fingers in my mouth, kissing each lightly, letting my tongue play lazily over them, tasting my own sweat on his skin. I press back against him, loving the feel of his warm chest and belly against my back. I think distantly that it's just as well I'm not wearing my shirt, because I'm covered in sweat, both his and mine, and no matter how hard I try to wipe it off before we go back out there, I'm going to scent of him, of _us_, for the rest of the night. The thought causes my lips to curve up in pleasure, and Mike murmurs softly in my ear: "Happy?"

"Ummph." I grunt in pleasured agreement. "Yes. Very." He nuzzles my neck, wrapping his arms tight round me, and I learn back, closing my eyes, loving the feeling of him holding me. Why it took me so long to discover this sort of pleasure I have no idea, but sure as hell I intend to make up for it now.

"We should go," he murmurs without much enthusiasm.

"I thought I was _never_ going to stop then," I reply, and smile as his grip tightens in affection, and he murmurs, "God, me neither. Fuck, but you're so good."

"Only ever as good as who I'm with," I reply, and let my fingers caress the silver ring on his left hand, as the two of us reluctantly pull apart and start cleaning up, hunting for shirts and ties and doing our best to tidy each other up, since this storeroom doesn't run to having a mirror. I check the corridor outside for noises, and we slip out unnoticed, still holding hands.

And back at our flat, in the early hours of the morning, Mike looks straight into my eyes, and smiles wryly as he says: "You need to go sit on the roof".

"I'm sorry?"

He continues to hold my gaze, and, as often before with him, I get the feeling that Mike can see right into me and see everything that I am, and love me anyway. I am naked before him, and I don't care.

"Something's been on your mind all night."

"Maybe it was you," I parry.

Mike makes a show of looking at his watch. "Nah. It's been five hours since we last did it, which gives you plenty of time to recharge, yet you haven't pinned me against the wall." He grins mischievously, and usually the conversation would stop there, but he's right. I don't feel in the mood for it, and I know that whatever that thought is at the back of my head, it needs to come out soon, and it won't be pleasant when it does.

Ah, who the fuck am I kidding? I know what it is. I just don't want to face it, but I have to.

Mike kisses me gently, then grasps my forearms lovingly. "Drew, go sit on the roof and figure things out. I'll be here when you get back."

_You'll be asleep when I get back_, I think fondly. I've seen Mike like this before, and I know from past experience that he'll be unconscious about three seconds after he sits down on the bed to start taking his shoes off. I return his smile, then turn away.

I climb up onto the roof and settle myself there. This is one of my favourite places to think. From here, I can see out into the city, but there are no clear lines of sight for anyone with a gun and a grudge against me. In fourteen years of working for MI5, I've accumulated a few of those.

They say that falling in love – if indeed that's what this thing between Mike and I is, but what other phrase fits? – is a gentle, pleasant process, and maybe for some people it is. For me, it was more like being broadsided by a truck.

My whole life has changed. I never saw this coming, but I wouldn't change it.

So much I never understood.

Sitting there, I flashed back to another conversation on a roof. Tanya and I, this time, on the roof of the dojo we'd both trained at when we lived in London, before she left to join the Army. This was nine years ago, when she was still in the Army and I'd been working for Five for just over a year.

I'd finally got round to taking my black belt examination, and passed first time. We'd managed to time it for when Tanya was on leave so that she could be there. The plan was to meet up with some of the other students for drinks later that evening, but first, we wanted to celebrate together, just the two of us.

Funny how tastes stay with you. I must have drunk beer any number of times since, but I still remember the taste of that one like it was yesterday, and no beer ever since has tasted the same. Then again, I'd spent an entire day being tested, or more accurately pummelled, to within an inch of my life, and the bruises were already promising to be pretty spectacular in the morning, so by God, did I need that beer.

Tanya grinned at me, and I grinned back. "Well done, Drew. Always figured you'd do it."

I grinned back cockily and slurped the rest of the beer. "Shit yeah." I grin more broadly. "Dead simple."

Suddenly, without her expression even changing, Tanya slid behind me, throwing an arm over my chest and hooking my legs out from under me. I glared up at her from my new position on the floor. "Hey!"

She planted a boot on my chest, pinning me, looked down at me, and smiled a little, a smile which I now realise must have been the forerunner of the nasty smile seen by any number of hapless Army cadets who had made the serious mistake of assuming that, because their sergeant was a woman, they were in for a nice soft ride.

"Life lesson for you, Drew." She looked down at me sternly, and in that moment I realised that the wild kid I'd run around London with when we were both younger had vanished under an Army uniform and Army discipline. The woman talking to me now was a seasoned soldier and, I suddenly realised, someone I respected an enormous amount. I held up a hand in the traditional martial arts gesture of asking to be pulled to your feet, and Tanya removed her boot and pulled me up with a smile, then wagged a finger. "Don't _ever_ buy your own act."

"I'm sorry?"

"Piece of advice someone once gave to me." She stared off into the distance thoughtfully, then turned back to stare intently at me. "You can be anyone. Be the master of the dojo no-one can beat. Be the army sergeant everyone fears." She grinned at me and raised an eyebrow. "Be the guy who has all the answers, and the crazy-shit ideas no-one else would ever think to try."

I grinned back. Even then, I was already getting a bit of a reputation.

"But don't _ever_ start buying that act yourself, Drew. 'Cause you start buying it yourself, you'll start forgetting you can make mistakes, and then someone, somewhere, will spot that, and you'll go down." She paused, and then added: "You can bullshit everyone else, Drew, but don't ever bullshit yourself. You remember that."

I reached across and squeezed her shoulder, and she answered by dropping her hand over mine with a smile. "I will," I replied, then couldn't resist adding: "When the hell did you get so fucking smart?"

She grinend, a wild kamikaze grin I've seen any number of times before, still the same unstoppable Tanya I know and love. "I was always this fucking smart, Drew, you just didn't used to be that good at spotting it. Now come on. Last one to the pub gets the first round in!"

Nearly ten years later, back on the roof, I remember Tanya's advice, and grin ruefully.

Funny how, the older you get, the longer it takes you to admit you can be wrong. I should watch that, I guess, since it looks like I _will_ be getting older. I honestly never thought I would make it this far, figured I'd die on active service with Five. But somehow I survived, and now here I am, sitting on a roof and realising that…

I sigh, and force myself to have the thought that's been eating at the back of my head since I saw Sienna in the bar, over twelve hours ago.

...realising that what I feel for Mike, Sienna felt for Bobby Goren.

And I took that from her.

I stare up into the orange glow of London's night. Part of me mutters rebelliously, _It's not all my fault_. Which it isn't. You can parcel the fault up neatly, three pieces. One part Goren's for letting her go (because she has said any number of times that the worst part was that he just accepted it, didn't fight, didn't plead…), one part Sienna's, for trusting my judgement, not hers… and one part mine.

Shit. I rake my fingers through my hair. _Should have told her at Glastonbury_, the little voice adds. Yeah, I should, but it's a bit late to be thinking that now.

If I'd said something… when? After she got shot? At Glastonbury? How about even earlier, when she gave me and Jack and Tanya that brave smile and said she was moving on, that it was early days but that she thought maybe with John… Yes, that would have been a good moment to come clean about the fact that I intended all along that she would come here so that I could use her as bait.

But I didn't, because I wanted John Durham to go down, and I needed her to be in tight with him so that I could get proof and put him away, and I didn't realise at the time what I was condemning her to, but that's no excuse. Bottom line, I screwed her over.

Something tells me that Sienna is not going to buy the "It was only _partly_ my fault" line of reasoning, and, let's face it, in her position, I wouldn't.

Admittedly, I wouldn't have made the mistake of trusting an agent of the security services of a foreign state, no matter how nice and friendly he seemed to be, but Sienna is not me, and two years ago she was a very different person. Specifically, a more trusting person, and that change is another thing I have to hold up my hand to being responsible for.

I've done worse. At the last count, I'm directly responsible for the deaths of three people (all justifiable, honest), indirectly responsible for fuck knows how many more, and I've broken up at least two marriages (on the rocks already… honest).

But I never looked any of those people in the eyes on a weekly basis afterwards. Never ate lunch with them, never laughed at stupid jokes with them, never… _befriended_ them.

And then I make the decision. Out of respect for that friendship, I _will _tell Sienna. Tell her that I knew Durham was corrupt from the start. I'll wait til the right time, maybe take her out somewhere, then tell her the complete truth.

Perhaps I'd feel better about that decision if I didn't think that maybe, just maybe, I'm only doing it because if I don't, our friendship, our little gang of four, ends anyway. Sienna can't carry on drinking like that, and if she's drinking because she's depressed, and she's depressed because she doesn't have Goren… I can't fix that for her, but maybe I can persuade her to try again. Persuasion is what I do, after all.

I go downstairs and sprawl onto the bed, next to Mike, who is asleep, worn out. At least I've got him… but will I, once he finds out? Ah shit. Enough angst for one day, already, and I will myself to sleep.

Back in the present, in my boring little hospital bed, I close my eyes wearily.

Had I but known, I think miserably. Had I known that I was about to miss my last chance to tell her the truth…

_If only_… Stupid fucking words. You can't ever change the past, and now it feels like my future is well and truly fucked. I don't know if I have a job, I don't know if my arm will heal well enough for me to do it even if I do, and none of my friends want to see me.

I still have Mike, I remind myself. Yeah, but am I still the person he wants? He didn't sign up to nurse a cripple, which for all I know is what I'm going to be.

I'll never see SiSi again, I realise. She's going back to New York. I've already told Mike to tell her I don't want to see her until I'm well, and that's not going to be until long after she's gone.

Maybe I should change that, but why? She must be furious with me, but I know SiSi, and I know that if she sees me whilst I'm still recovering and screams at me, calls me every name under the sun, then she'll feel horrible about it afterwards, and she's already spent enough time feeling horrible because of me.

The IPod continues playing, uncaringly.

"_Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, oh, and I rush to the start._

_Running in circles, coming up tails, coming back as we are. _

_Nobody said it was easy, oh, it's such a shame for us to part…"_

Shut up, Chris Martin. You're not helping any.

I click it off, and turn my head to face the wall.

I'm going to miss her so much.


	12. Making Contact

**Author's Note**:

I'd like to dedicate this episode for Megan, just for her general awesomeness. Thanks, Megs.

This chapter was partly inspired by the CSI:NY episode, "Stuck on You" (season 2, episode 14).

The song in the pub scene in this fic was written by a friend of mine's band whilst I was at university (I cannot, alas, write lyrics to save my life). It was one of their most popular songs when we were there. (Its original name was even more offensive. I've changed it in the interests of good taste.) Pete _et al_, if you're reading this, I hope you're well, and I'm sorry I couldn't find you first and ask permission to borrow your song!

I contemplated my problem, and cursed. _Damn you, webcam_.

It shouldn't be this difficult, I thought moodily. Usually I was pretty good at setting up computers, and these days I should have just been able to plug the damn thing in and get it going, but my computer resolutely refused to acknowledge that there was even a webcam plugged in to it, let alone allow me to adjust the settings.

_You're being silly_, I thought. I didn't really need it; I had already set up Skype on my personal laptop. Truly, the internet was a marvellous thing. Who would have thought that one day we could make phone calls from one computer direct to another? Given the cost of transatlantic phone calls, it was an innovation I was happy to embrace. Email was all very well, but I wanted to be able to talk to Tanya and Jack in real time. More importantly, I wanted to _see_ them.

_All three of them_. Tanya was six and a half months along, and we were all beginning to start thinking about the fact that, in less than three months' time, Baby Tanya would be making her appearance. According to the ultrasound technician at their local hospital, it would indeed be a baby Tanya, rather than a baby Jack, which seemed to please both of them.

Damnit, I missed them. We'd emailed photos back and forth, but it just wasn't the same.

Giving up on the computer, I looked across at the door, and sighed. Part of the deal between Bobby and I was that we never complained about each other's workloads. Well, that was the general idea. We hadn't always stuck to it, but we did try hard never to complain without first trying to just say to each other: "Hey, I haven't seen much of you lately – shall we spend some quality time together this weekend?"

It probably said something about both of us that our relationship needed ground rules, but odd as it seemed, it did work. Since I'd returned to New York, we'd not had a major row. A few awkward moments, but no major rows. We both did our best to put the other first and not to let work become an excuse to I accepted Bobby's need to visit his mother every weekend. In return…

_In return, what?_ I shook my head as if to rid it of the thought. In return, I was in a relationship with the love of my life. We had great sex (I still blushed at some of the memories from the first, honeymoon-like period when I'd returned to New York), we had great companionship, we spent time together. Indeed, recently I couldn't help thinking that, given that we were both professionals with good salaries, pooling our living space and resources would give us even more quality time together…

_Yeah, but does he _really _know what's going on in your head?_ The thought could not be denied.

Okay, I thought to myself. Let's think this through. So I'm not telling Bobby everything I think about having moved back here. But there's a reason. He was so damn nervous about whether I'd think I'd made a mistake in leaving London, I didn't want to provoke that insecurity. In nearly fifty years of life, Bobby had had enough people decide they wanted to leave him for one reason or another that being abandoned was one of his worst fears, something he was constantly on guard against. I wanted to give our relationship time to grow, and if that meant dealing with the pain and loss on my own, then that was the price for being back with him.

_And how long will you go on dealing with it on your own? When will your relationship be strong enough to ask Bobby to help you with those feelings?_

Both good questions, I thought ruefully. Maybe it was time I broke one of my own ground rules, and starting talking to Bobby about how lonely I felt sometimes.

It wasn't that I had no friends here. I had my friend Juliet and her husband Ben, though we had grown apart during my time in the UK. I was making new friends through work. In particular, Alex Eames and I had grown into a new friendship I'd never expected to see happen, but which I greatly welcomed. As two professional women, we had lots in common. Apart from the obvious, which was that we both loved Bobby – me romantically, her platonically – and would do nearly anything to see him happy.

Yes, things were getting better in New York. It was just that, weird as it sounded, Tanya and Jack and I had bonded. We had been like family, although I had never met them before I moved to London, and had spent time together every week, sometimes spending whole weekends together, even going on holiday for a week one summer. I missed them deeply.

_Them, and Drew_.

Well, yes. There was the problem.

Bobby might accept that I missed Tanya and Jack, and even be able to talk about it. But I suspected – maybe unfairly, but I thought probably not – that any mention of Drew would start Bobby off on his protective boyfriend routine.

_He IS your boyfriend, and would you want him not to be protective?_

Actually, yes, I thought. I would. I wanted him to listen to me, not start talking about how unethical Drew had been, how angry he was at the way I'd been treated, not just when Drew had used me as bait, but about the fact he had – as Bobby would put it – _pretended_ to be my friend for two years, never once telling me that he'd known from the start that the man I'd fallen for in England was corrupt, and that Drew had been charged with the task of taking him down.

All perfectly fair reactions on Bobby's part, but in the face of that, how could I possibly be honest?

How could I say that we hadn't been a threesome of friends, we'd been a foursome? That, if anything, I'd spent more time with Drew than with Tanya and Jack (who were a couple, after all)? That the two of us had had lunch together, trained together, gone to the practice firing range together, had drinks and dinner after work together? Perhaps not every week, but certainly during most weeks we would spend some time together.

I sighed with nostalgia, allowing myself to acknowledge for once just how much I missed him. Beneath the sarcasm and cynicism, Drew could be fantastic fun to be with; witty, passionate, and perceptive. Ideas spilled out of his mind at nearly the same rate as…

I spotted the thought looming up ahead of me, then went ahead and thought it anyway. _At nearly the same rate as out of Bobby's_. I sighed. I would never, ever, say this to Bobby – he'd have a coronary – but there was just a _slight_ similarity there. Both fiercely intelligent, both prone to weird, off-the-wall ideas that no-one else would ever have, both with a reputation for simultaneously being the weird guy _and_ the guy you went to solve the cases that no-one else could crack. Both utterly determined to catch the bad guys.

_With the not-insignificant difference that Bobby would _never_ screw over one of his friends like that. _

I rubbed my face. I couldn't argue with the fact that Drew had behaved incredibly badly towards me. Was I being deluded? Was I just making excuses for him when I told myself that he'd changed? That, okay, he _had_ screwed me over when I first moved there, but that he'd become a better person, a different person, over the two years that I'd known him, and that the new Drew would have done things differently, if he could have gone back in time and done them again?

_He still didn't apologise to you, and for all you know, if it hadn't been for Jack you still wouldn't know the truth_.

I couldn't argue with any of that. I just wished I could discuss it with the rational, perceptive side of Bobby's mind, not the side that wanted to beat the daylights out of anybody who upset me in general and Drew in particular, for taking me from Bobby. I should remember that, I thought. Drew had hurt Bobby too, albeit indirectly.

In the face of all that, how could I say to my beloved Bobby that in all truth, I missed Drew in the same way that he would miss Alex if anything took her from him?

_Well, not _quite_ in the same way Bobby would miss Alex_…

That thought was mercifully interrupted by the telephone ringing. I got up to get it, knocked the webcam off the table, and had to hop madly about to avoid stepping on it and smashing it to pieces. By the time I'd disentangled myself from the camera and its wiring, Bobby's answerphone had clicked on.

I froze at the voice that issued from it. _Female, probably early thirties, probably Caucasian, very probably drunk, _a dispassionate part of my brain thought, whilst the rest of me listened incredulously.

"Oh hey, Bobby, it's me. I haven't heard from you in _ages_! Anyway, I'm gonna be getting into town real soon, so, well, if you want a little _fun_ – if you want to be getting into, well, _you know_ – you just give me a call, okay? I miss you, Bobby. Like, you know, eight inches worth of missing you!"

Here the voice broke into hysterical female giggles, whilst I tried hard not to think murderous thoughts. The other female continued giggling for some time, then rang off with "See you soon, big guy!"

_Well_. I shook my head to try to clear it. Well, had I really expected Bobby to be celibate whilst I was gone? I fought down my indignation long enough to acknowledge that, no, that wasn't realistic.

I replayed the message, thinking, well, she'd said they hadn't spoken in ages… that didn't sound like Bobby had been seeing her behind my back…

_Oh come on, Sienna!_ Just thinking that last thought cleared my head. There was just no way Bobby was seeing anyone behind my back. He had fought so hard to get me back… no. This other woman had to be an old acquaintance, maybe one of his Army buddies. It sounded from her message that they just hooked up when she was passing through New York. I could live with that. Well, if I didn't want to be the world's biggest hypocrite, I _had_ to live with that. I hadn't exactly been a nun myself when I'd lived in Britain, and I blushed slightly at the memories…

A sudden noise at the door interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up guiltily. At the same time, the answerphone beeped at me to indicate that I needed to decide whether to replay, save or delete the message.

I meant to hit "save", but accidentally (or possibly through a Freudian slip) I hit "delete" instead. Oops. Oh well. As a very tired Bobby staggered through the door, I instantly decided that we would discuss this at a later date.

He staggered in through the door, kicking it shut and locking it behind him on autopilot. Shaking his head to shake off the raindrops, he entered the room to see Sienna bent over the computer.

"Oh, hey, Bobby…" She frowned, not looking up. Biting back the thought _hey, I need a hug over here_, he hastened over to see what the problem was.

"It's this stupid webcam," she explained without looking up. "I can't seem to get the computer to recognise it exists."

He took a look, but a few seconds convinced him that if Sienna hadn't managed to get it working, he probably wouldn't either. She had probably already tried everything he could think of to fix it, anyway. He'd ask one of the geeks in the CSI lab to have a look at it, he thought; a couple of them owed him favours, and they would surely be able to find the problem.

Beside, he didn't want to spend the evening staring at the computer. He wanted to spend quality time with his Sienna. As she frowned over the computer, he took the opportunity to check her out.

If he ever got tired of checking his love out, he thought, it would be time to check his pulse and then call for Dr Rodgers to determine cause of death. Sienna was so lovely, he thought, allowing his eyes to roam freely over her rounded figure, the natural curves of her breasts, hips and bottom contrasting nicely with her newly-slim waist and muscled arms and legs.

She was looking particularly feminine tonight, he thought. Her mane of red hair was completely loose, brushing her shoulders, and she was wearing a soft purple velvet dress – _mulberry_, he thought, trying to decide on exactly what to call that shade of slightly reddish dark purple – that clung nicely without being too revealing. Long-sleeved and nearly full-length, it flowed nicely over the sleek lines of her body, practically inviting an exploring hand to stroke it, and her…

Almost without thinking, he had slipped an arm around her body, and she leaned into him, making a soft purring sound of happiness. He realised that he was making the same sound himself, and put both of his arms around her. She turned into him, snuggling against his body with a gentle sigh.

Yes, he thought, he would definitely have to persuade Sienna to wear this dress some time when he would be better able to properly appreciate it. The combination of strokable velvet with warm, soft woman was very good indeed. They stayed that way for some time, and he could feel the tension draining from his body.

Suddenly, he wanted to go out, just escape the apartment and the responsibilities of being Detective Goren for one night. That, and he wanted to be seen in public as Sienna's partner. He was still proud of being her mate, and secretly rather liked the double-takes they occasionally got when they went out as a couple, as other men realised that yes, the thirty-year-old redheaded bombshell was with _him_.

He smiled. He knew the perfect place.

"So, where are we going again?"

Bobby just smiled and murmured: "It's a surprise."

I rolled my eyes affectionately. We shouldn't really be doing this, I thought, not with work the day after… but wasn't the naughtiness half the fun?

The cab pulled up outside a large, clean-looking bar. The rain was dying down by now, and I could hear jazz drifting out of the door.

Bobby paid the driver, then hopped out and thoughtfully opened my door for me, holding an umbrella so that my dress wouldn't get wet. We entered the bar arm-in-arm, and found a nice table near the wall, halfway between the door and the front of the bar, where the presence of a microphone and two stools indicated that we could expect to hear some more live jazz soon. Perhaps the singer had gone off for a much-needed beer, I thought.

I leaned back, and was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia…

"_I'm in a bar full of prats_

_Fighting my way out_

_And they like the music loud,_

_So loud you have to shout…"_

"So you know this guy?" I yelled at Jack, jerking my thumb at the singer on stage. It was summer, one year after I'd moved to London, and we were sitting in the upstairs room of the Red Lion, a busy pub not far from Tanya and Jack's house. Despite it being a Wednesday, the place was packed to the rafters. A large poster by the door proclaimed it to be "Acoustic Music Night", and the bar was doing a roaring trade serving musicians who had played, musicians who had yet to play and who were nervous, musicians' family members, musicians' friends, various assorted musicians' girlfriends and boyfriends, and random people who had just wandered in off the street and stayed for a drink.

"_I spoke to you on the way in here_

_I can barely just remember_

_Eight drinks on, GET OUT OF MY WAY,_

_Or I'll be forced to lose my temper." _

The man at the front had announced that his song, "Bar Full of Prats" was inspired by the "stuck up prats" at a more upmarket bar down the road (obviously a hated rival). He was halfway through, and so far I agreed with every word of the song, having been to the same place with Drew, albeit not for long; we'd left when one man at the bar had started going on about how his office was "filled with poofs" and cracking jokes about shirt-lifters, and I'd started having distinct visions of explaining to the investigating officers that, yes, actually, Drew _had _been provoked into beating the daylights out of the bigoted idiot…

"Know him? They used to be in the same band!" Drew yelled back, ignoring Jack's look of annoyance at being interrupted.

"Get out! You used to be in a band?" I didn't know why I was surprised. Jack's love for music was surpassed only by his love for Tanya, and I already knew he had real talent, having heard him playing the piano on several occasions.

"Yeah, for a few years…"

"It's how we met," Drew continued, interrupting yet again. "I had a hangover, and he wouldn't stop practising the piano. I went downstairs to tell him to shut up, and he told me to fuck off and slammed the door on my foot." He smiled with a nostalgic sigh. "Happy days."

Jack took a long slurp of his beer, finishing the glass. "It seems so long ago."

"What did you play?"

"Piano, natch." Drew replied, interrupting yet again.

"Shut up, you rude bugger, she's not talking to _you_." Jack turned and addressed me. "I used to play the piano. Used to sing a bit, too. If only we'd stuck with it, we could have been the next Keane."

"Yeah, and wouldn't that have been a fate worse than death?" Drew snarked, and finished his beer.

"I LIKE Keane," I replied, feeling the need to defend Jack.

"Oh, come on, it's music to wet the bed to…" Drew didn't finish his sentence, as Tanya, returning from the bar with more drinks, remarked "Play nicely, children" and shoved a fresh beer in front of all of us.

I grinned at her, received an answering grin back, and thought happily about how lucky I was to know all of them. Okay, so my time in London hadn't gotten off to the best start, but I was moving forward now. My leg was healed, my new job was proving fascinating, I had a new hobby, having taken up martial arts training at Tanya's dojo. Most importantly, I had three new friends I thought the world of. In a week's time we were going to be going to the Glastonbury festival to work at a bar there, to raise funds for the dojo, and as I looked round at the three of them, I wouldn't have been parted from them for the world.

Over a year later, back in the present, I sighed, then jumped slightly as Bobby sat down beside me with two drinks. Beer, now as then, but non-alcoholic beer, in deference to work tomorrow.

"You looked far away then," he murmured, busying himself pouring the beers into glasses.

I took a deep breath, and decided to take a chance.

"I was, I guess. I was just thinking about being in London."

"You must miss your friends."

I looked up, surprised. Bobby smiled very gently, almost shyly. I reminded myself that reading people's minds was what my love did for a living.

_Okay, Sienna, here goes_. "Yes. I do miss them. I miss them so much, Bobby," I began, and stopped as Bobby reached out to take my hand. I shuffled my chair closer to his, so that I could almost feel the warmth of his body coming through the yellow cotton shirt he was wearing. _Still so handsome_, I thought. Though Bobby was looking older, he was aging very well indeed, and as his handsome face wrinkled into an expression of concern, I felt a huge surge of love for him, and the thought reassured me.

Yes, I missed my friends, but I loved Bobby. "I do miss them. We all spent so much time together… it was weird, in a way." I shrugged. "I guess normally, you only hang out with people like that when you're a kid or something, at high school or college maybe. I mean, we weren't with each other _every _night… but at least a couple of times a week we'd get together, sometimes just to have dinner – Jack loves cooking, you've seen that – but also we'd go out drinking on a Friday night, and sometimes Tanya and I would go clothes shopping together at weekends." I caught Bobby's smile. "What's funny?"

He smiled. "It's just the thought of the two of you together, shopping for handbags, trying on shoes…"

I giggled. "Yes, I guess you don't kind of think of putting "Tanya" and "going shopping" in the same sentence. Just before I got there, one of her friends left to go work abroad – she married a guy who lived in Cyprus and owned a bar. I suppose I kind of filled a gap in her life."

It occurred to me for the first time to wonder if that, too, had been in Drew's devious mind when he invited me to meet Tanya and Jack during my second week in the UK. Had he introduced me to Tanya knowing that she needed a new female friend, and hoping that I'd fit the bill? I wouldn't put it past him… but nor would I be angry with him if he had, I thought. Knowing her had given me a gigantic boost of self-confidence just when I needed it most.

You could not be around Tanya and have any doubts whatsoever that a female could be tough, determined, even ruthless, and yet still friendly, funny, and caring. Just as you couldn't be around Drew and not begin to see the advantages of learning to trust your own instincts, or be around Jack and not learn the fine art of taking care of the people around you without being a doormat.

Bobby chuckled. "I'm impressed you had the energy to do all that and start a new job."

I grinned. "I don't believe in letting my work take over my life, Bobby. Sometimes it does you good to get out and get away from it all for a bit, remind yourself that there's a whole world out there beyond One Police Plaza". I gestured at the stage, where two musicians, a man and woman, were taking their places in front of the mikes.

Then, suddenly, I did a double-take. "Hang on, isn't that…?"

I stared more closely at the man with a guitar who was accompanying the female singer. "That's Mac Taylor, isn't it?"

Bobby grinned hugely at my expression. "Yeah, it is." He leaned forward. "I thought you'd enjoy the surprise, and I know you like live music."

I didn't reply, being too fascinated by the spectacle of the much-feared and respected head of the CSI team in jeans and a dark blue shirt, playing jazz on the bass guitar with an expression of mixed concentration and pleasure. He was playing with some skill, I realised. Hanging around with Jack and Drew for two years had taught me a little about music, and whilst I myself lacked any real talent, even I could tell that he was performing very well indeed.

_Wow_, I thought. _The things you never know about people_. I already knew that Bobby had a huge amount of respect for Mac Taylor, and it was an opinion I shared. Not only was Taylor a brilliant CSI, he was an excellent leader, too, able to get the best out of his team without breathing down their necks. Then again, I thought, knowing that the polite, softly-spoken man in the white lab coat was also capable of killing you with his bare hands probably added a certain… motivation… to life and work within the CSI labs. Seeing Detective Taylor play with that almost-shy expression on his face suggested a whole new side to the man.

_Always something new to learn_, I thought, then stopped, as my eye was caught by a couple at a table near the front.

I gently nudged Bobby. "Bobby, look over there." He followed my gaze discreetly, not turning his head, but gently leaning in towards me to get a better view.

He chuckled softly, having seen what I had. Two of the junior CSIs, Danny Messer and Lindsey Monroe, were seated at a table near the front with a couple of beers in front of them.

They weren't actually dating, I thought. Or if they were, it could only be in the very early stages; they were being too polite, too controlled, respecting each other's personal space. Nevertheless, there was just something about the way they kept making each other laugh, the looks they kept shooting at each other (usually when the other wasn't looking) that made me think, _hmm_!

Well, they were both adults, and there were no official rules to forbid it. Besides, I had to admire Monroe's taste. Bobby was more than enough man to keep me satisfied, but that didn't mean I didn't _notice_ the existence of other males. And even in a CSI lab where the HR department seemed to have a recruitment policy that could be described as "Hire the hot ones!", Messer stood out; a stunning looker, athletic, _and_ extremely smart. Good luck to both of them, I thought generously, then amended that to include Taylor himself. I hoped he found someone too.

I turned my attention back to _my_ man, and took a minute just to appreciate him, taking it Bobby's broad shoulders, big chest and powerful arms, those beautiful dark eyes and that white-toothed smile. _Damn it, I love him_, I thought, and smiled. Bobby simply lounged back in his chair, allowing my scrutiny with an affectionate smile.

Suddenly, he leaned forward and took my hands in his, looking me intently in the eye. For a wild second, I wondered what exactly he was going to say.

"Sienna… would you like to go back to London some time?"

That took me by surprise, but not for long. "Oh yes, Bobby, I'd love to," I replied without even thinking about it.

"Maybe… some time near Christmas?"

"What about your mom?" I couldn't help saying, then regretted it as a shadow crossed his face.

He sighed. "We could arrange it… somehow… so that we could be away. I know I ask a lot of you… you moved all this way…"

"I moved to be with you, Bobby, and it was my choice," I repeated firmly.

"I just feel bad that you had to give up your friends. I did look at moving to London… but it's not easy… every country has its own way of doing things, and it would be difficult to transfer…"

I was stunned to hear that he'd even considered that. I smiled at him with love. "Bobby, I wouldn't ask you to do that. London isn't my home anyway, not really. Your family is over here. Mine is too, in case you were forgetting."

"I know you don't get on too well with them," he replied cautiously.

"That's true." I sighed. "If anything, that's why we all got on so well. Tanya left home at fourteen, Jack only started getting on well with his family once he moved to the other end of the country from them, and as for Drew, well, he just used to say he didn't have a family. Sometimes, I used to think the four of us were a mutual support group for people from screwed-up backgrounds."

I didn't miss the slight shadow that crossed Bobby's face at the mention of Drew's name, but he didn't pursue it. Instead, he just smiled, and murmured: "Thank you for coming back here."

"You don't need to thank me with words, Bobby." I smiled. "You thank me every time you see me, just by making me happy." Oh my gosh, that sounded sappy, I thought, but sometimes sappy is still true, and Bobby and I smiled into each other's eyes with love.

We spent the rest of the evening in the bar, listening to jazz (and surreptitiously watching Messer and Monroe getting to know each other better). In the taxi home, I mused on just what it meant, that my heart had started racing so fast when Bobby's eyes had met mine and he'd lent in towards me as if to say something very important…

_It means that it's time now to be thinking about whether the two of you should try living together again_, I thought, and firmly refused to carry that thought any further. If things were going to develop, they would do so in their own good time, I thought as we settled in for the night, and smiled with contentment as I slid under the covers.

Just before I drifted off, I realised I hadn't mentioned the mysterious female caller to Bobby, but the evening had been going well, and I hadn't wanted to spoil it with an awkward conversation. It could wait until a more opportune time, I thought muzzily, and slid into sleep.

Later on, in the early hours of the morning, the cellphone's soft beeping woke him. Bobby tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but found that he couldn't, and eventually he got out of bed, grumbling, and went to find it, cursing whoever was calling at this hour. It wasn't his police pager, but it could be something to do with his mom…

…except, he realised, finding the source of the beeping, that it was Sienna's cellphone, not his. He paused to look at her, peacefully asleep, and reflected how much fun the night had been, as he flipped open the cell, intending to listen to the message so that he could decide whether Sienna needed to be woken or not. He didn't like to interrupt her rest.

Truly, having a girlfriend you could spend time with in _and_ out of bed was the key to happiness, he thought smugly, then froze.

The message itself was short. "Hi, SiSi, it's me. I'm sorry I didn't catch your call earlier, I'm returning it now… except it's three in the morning over there. Shit. Sorry!" The message cut off.

He stared into space.

_It means nothing, Bobby. Nothing_.

Except that he recognised the voice on the end of the telephone, and it was one he would have been happy never to hear again.

Male, British, and unmistakably Andrew Davenport's.


	13. Gravity

"_Coming, it's been a long time coming, _

_And I can't stop now. _

_Such a long time, running, _

_And I can't stop now._

_Do you hear my heart beating? _

_Can you hear the sound? _

_Because I can't help thinking,_

_And I won't look down."_

Embrace, "Gravity" (album "Out of Nothing").

**Author's Note**: I'm slightly stuck on the next chapter for Bobby and Sienna, so I decided it was time for our final narrator to step forward. The events Jack describes in the second part of this chapter happened on the morning of the match day in "Bulletproof Armour".

It will be pretty obvious to anyone who knows me that this is quite a personal piece; the journey Jack is taking here is the same one I take every time I return home when I've been travelling. (Indeed, were he to turn left at the cemetary instead of going straight on, then wind his way through the streets for a few minutes, he'd eventually find a large house inhabited by four people, one of whom is a blond woman with glasses who probably owes him an apology.)

_The A1 motorway, just outside Newcastle upon Tyne, north of England._

_Two months after the end of "Bulletproof Armour"._

I'm nearly there now. Not far before the journey ends, and the bike thrums happily beneath me, engine running smoothly. It does it good to get out of the short, stop-start routines of city riding and out and off up the motorway, 75mph all the way. Cleans out the engine.

I can't spare much attention from the road, but it's a relatively quiet evening and the A1 motorway is nearly empty, just a few heavy goods lorries and the odd van or car here and there. A gorgeous evening, too. As we approach the end of the summer, the warm weather continues and golden sunlight is flooding the whole road and the surrounding area. I stifle a feeling of guilt at how much I'm enjoying this, and try not to think about how fast I've got used to the space at my back, the light handling of the bike with only my weight on it.

No Tanya, no Sienna, no Drew. Just me.

Above me, the sign indicates where the motorway splits into two; one into the A1 North, one into the Tyne Tunnel road for the city and the local area. I check the mirror and change lanes, leaning into the turn as the road curves round on the approach into the city.

Ahead of me lies Newcastle, the biggest city in the north of England, and I rev the engine faster as I catch my first glimpse of the giant metal figure of the Angel of the North, just up ahead of me on the right-hand side. As I speed along, it briefly vanishes, dipping out of view behind a rise in the hills, then I crest the top of the hill and for a glorious few seconds the Angel glows a beautiful rust-orange in front of me in the evening light before the road turns into the Bowes Incline, and I drop fast past the Angel and down the hill towards the city. To my left there are green and rolling fields as far as the eye can see; to my right, Newcastle sprawls in a vast urban jumble of houses and retail parks and, just visible in the distance, the gleaming buildings of the city centre.

For the first time in months, I feel free, and I yell wildly inside my helmet and have to resist the urge to pull the front wheel up into a wheelie (which would be suicidal going at 80mph down a steep hill).

This has been a long journey, nearly 300 miles up the spine of Britain, the M1 North, stopping once halfway to visit and eat with some friends in Leeds, then on the bike again and up the road to the North, but right now I'm seized with the mad desire to just keep going and never stop. I could keep going, follow the road as it swings out round the city and away, along the coast and over the border, up past Edinburgh and through the Scottish Borders out towards the Highlands, following ever-smaller and wilder roads until I eventually arrived at my family's house in the middle of the night, cold and tired but free…

…except that I'm hungry, I'm tired, it's going to be dark in about an hour, I'm about to run out of petrol and if I ever intend to have more children, I should probably get off this bike in the not-too-distant future. Besides, I have people to see. This is the tenth annual get-together of myself and my old friends from university. There weren't that many of us with bikes, and we hung out together nearly the whole time we were there. I'm here for the tenth and possibly last time, at least for a few years.

Not long after, I cross the Tyne, and five minutes later I turn off the main road, and follow directions long since memorised, turning right at the roundabout and heading along the West Road ("you go past the cemetary where they filmed Get Carter, if you don't go past it in five minutes you're on the wrong road"), past shops and a hospital. In ten minutes I'm nearly at the end of the road, the iron green curve of the Tyne Bridge just visible before me, and the end of my journey is in sight.

Just before the West Road vanishes into the city, the final part of it, Biker Hill as some of us call it, is devoted to motorcycles. Shops, outfitters, cycle breakers and greasy cafes compete for trade and above them are a series of old terraced houses, now rented to students and others needing cheap space, among them my old friend Geordie Ed, who organises these get-togethers.

To judge by the whoops and music spilling out of the windows, the party is in full swing. I bring the bike to a stop, hop off, slowly and with a slight wince, lock it securely. I bang on the door, and find myself pulled into a reunion party in full swing. Ed shoves a beer in my hand, bellows "Where's Tanya?" at me, and vanishes into the throng before I can answer. I shrug and head upstairs to peel off my leathers and shower briefly before hurling myself into the fray…

…Three days later, I'm wandering slowly along Newcastle's Quayside, contemplating the long ride home without much joy. It's been a good few days. I don't remember them very well, which implies that they were good. Though, as Ed endlessly pointed out, it was the last time for me, can't be going out on the piss when you've got a kid to look after, your missus would kill you, at least _yours_ would, Jack-lad, hah hah.

It's late evening, one of the last of the really warm summer evenings we'll be having before autumn kicks in, and I'm nearly the only person out here on my own. Everyone else is either with their family, or their mates, or hand-in-hand with their other half…

For the first time in three days I feel the lack of Tanya, and then instantly feel guilty. Yet another thing to add to the Guilt Pile.

I've got so many things on the pile I can barely keep track. Where do I start? How about where I managed to get it wrong about the stadium, and forty people died? Nine at the scene, the rest of their injuries.

Just forty, as everyone says, could have been so many more. You're a hero, Jackie!

Remind me again why I work in a profession where people say "just forty dead?"

Part of the reason I feel so bad is that I _should_ be happy. I'm about to be a father, for God's sake. I should be turning cartwheels and telling everyone I meet, but I can't seem to feel anything other than a vague sense of dread.

I can't tell Tanya, can't burden her with this. She needs rest and nurturing, not my problems to deal with.

Stick that on the Guilt Pile, Jack, it can sit there next to the way you figured the truth out about how your old friend screwed over your new friend, and you decided to make sure _everyone_ found out about it in the most dramatic way possible. And didn't it feel good, knowing that, just once, you'd got one over on Drew? Got payback for him setting you up, all those years ago?

I still have his message on my phone, sent three weeks after he got shot. Two weeks after I screamed at my badly-injured friend who nearly died in the service of his country that he could fuck off and I never wanted to see him again.

_You acted like you'd forgiven me, Jackie…_

Like so many things Drew has said to me, that makes me either want to hug him or hit him, but I can't since we're not speaking and I haven't seen him since. On the one hand, _ouch_. On the other hand, how cocky is that, since he still refuses to apologise but expects me to forgive him? (And who uses a fucking ellipsis in a text message anyway?)

I'm supposed to be a hero, but I've never felt less heroic in my life. I'm the pride of the office, the guy who got the big scoop, who Brought Truth to Light, who Exposed the Bad Guys. And, of course, helped my paper make an absolute killing out of the near-deaths of thousands and the real deaths of forty, including two children.

I don't feel like a hero, I feel like a vulture.

I stop on the Millennium bridge, and lean back against the rail, feeling it bounce slightly as people stroll over it in the evening sunlight.

A song I've been learning recently thrums through my head, _and I looked up at the sky, and saw the sun, and the way that gravity pulls on everyone…_

About the only time I have any peace is when I play. Lately I've devoured song after song, driving myself not only to master them but to memorise them, late into the night, moving off the piano after eleven and plugging the earphones into the keyboard so that only I can hear the sounds.

Tanya puts up with it manfully.

I'm a useless husband to her these days. Can't be supportive, can't talk to her, can't act like an expectant father should, can't even fuck.

How can I possibly say I'm afraid to go near her?

I can't carry on like this. I close my eyes and think.

All I can think of is to go over what happened again. I spend so much time trying to push the memory away, fill my head with sounds so that it can't get it.

Maybe I should embrace it. Work through it or something.

I stare out over the river, and try to remember, and suddenly it's two months ago, a bright Saturday morning perfect for the football, and I've just got a lead I want to pursue before I join everyone for the match…

… I step up to the front door of Edward Cattley's flat, ring the bell and then stand in front of the peephole in the middle of the door. From within I can hear the thud of footsteps and a voice grunts: "Hello?"

I yell through the door. "Hello, my name's Benjamin Simmons? We just spoke on the phone?" (I'd rather Cattley didn't know – yet – that I'm a journalist, and these days it's so easy to Google someone's real name, particularly since mine is all over my paper's website.)

"Uh-huh." I hear the rattle of several bolts being drawn back and a deadlock being unlocked. Cattley apparently takes home security very seriously, which is interesting given that this is quite a plush area of London. I could afford it myself, just, but I would guess Cattley's small flat – one bedroom by the size of it – costs about as much as our house. From what I was quickly able to find out about him, he specialises in complex simulations for designing roofing for large construction projects; stadiums, museums, galleries, that kind of thing. He's actually part of a small firm specialising in simulations for the construction industry, but works from home.

"Hello?" The man on the other side of the door matches the picture I've seen of him. (I'm trying to be charitable, but it has to be said that the phrase "chubby geek" jumps into my head immediately.) Cattley's in his mid-twenties and looks as he's just woken up, unshaven, clad in jeans and a T-shirt and socks. Not a football fan, then. I really wish we'd found another morning to do this on, but Cattley said he was only free today and after tomorrow he's going on holiday for two weeks, so today it is.

I want the story – tales of corrupt multinationals wasting hard-working taxpayers' money are always good for filling a page or so, especially with the football angle to add interest – so I intend to get this over with quickly, then with luck and my bike I can make it back to the stadium in time for the match. Slightly cheeky, but I can probably work the experience into my opening paragraph. "As the cheers echo around the roof of the City of London stadium I'm assuming England might score, ever the optimist, few of those watching would think to question the amount spent on constructing the new home of English football, or the apparently inevitable delays in its construction…"

First though, I need to persuade Cattley to spill the beans about whatever Elahi didn't like about the simulations. I smile politely at him and adopt a tone of appropriate professional sympathy. "Hi. I'm here about the simulations Ranjit Elahi asked you to look at…"

Cattley's face drops, and I inwardly wince in sympathy. I've lost colleagues myself – one of ours was killed in Iraq recently – and it's never easy when you get suddenly reminded that you won't be seeing them again.

"Okay, um, right, do come in." He wanders off inside and I let myself through the door. This is going more easily than I was expecting. I get the impression, reinforced by the inside of Cattley's flat, that he's the sort of person who long since realised that his natural habitat was indoors, in front of a computer, and has happily settled for a career in which he never has to leave the house if he doesn't want to. Apparently suspicion of his fellow human beings isn't a part of his nature; we're probably less interesting to him than getting that latest simulation perfect.

Fine by me, since I was happy to give him the impression over the phone that I was looking into Elahi's work on behalf of Towells Construction. I may have to blag this next part, but the important thing is that I'm inside and I can probably get Cattley to show me the goods without giving myself away too quickly.

"Through here." I follow the voice into a large home office. Cattley may look like your classic geek, but he's evidently a professional classic geek. I'm not a computer expert myself, but I can tell instantly that this is really top-of-the-line stuff, hence the fortress on the front door, probably at the insistence of his firm's insurers.

Having spent entirely too much time in the company of Drew Davenport, I find myself glancing at the windows, and have to resist the urge to point out to Cattley that a thief can get in through any space larger than a human head, and he should get out of the habit of leaving the one in the hallway open, particularly if he likes listening to his iPod whilst he's working.

"So, anyway, these designs," Cattley is saying, shaking his head with a grin of incredulity. "You won't believe this, I didn't believe it, I'm surprised Ranj even let me see them, it's a total cock-up."

Oh joy. Fat, juicy story, here I come. "In what way?"

"Oh, the steel I-beams are totally wrong for the supports being used… It's a basic mistake, I reckon someone screwed up, wrote the wrong specification number down in the blueprints."

Blueprints? Interesting, and promising. That suggests Elahi didn't tell Cattley what the designs were for, I suppose because he didn't want Cattley looking at them with any preconceived ideas. Even better.

"Here, I'll show you what I mean. I ran a full simulation on it, even simulated what would happen during a match. I'll show you that first, it illustrates the point better than the more technical sims."

Cattley boots up the computer. As he clicks through the various programmes, loading up the simulation, I suddenly feel a faint but very nasty twinge of unease. I glance at my watch. Less than an hour to kick-off. I'd have preferred early in the day to meet, so I could fit in a drink with Tanya and the others before going to the match, but Cattley said to meet at twelve in a way that suggests he didn't want to get up earlier. They'll be inside the ground, now, watching the entertainment. I glance out of the window at the roads, which are nearly deserted, everyone stuck indoors watching the telly, but out on the main roads and near the stadium it'll be heaving. Luckily a bike can get through traffic quickly.

"So, here it is," Cattley draws my attention back to the screen.

Looking back, all I can remember thinking is _Oh, my God. Oh God_.

The simulation ran slowly, presumably so that Cattley could narrate what was happening - "you see here – the vibrations when the stadium is in use resonate throughout the temporary roof structure, the extra weight on the supports weakens them, leading to a slow collapse…" - but I didn't need any words. Cattley's horrible simulation showed it all in perfect sadistic detail, right down to the I-beams crashing down, obliterating the seats underneath them and the people…

_Oh my God Tanya's in there…_

I have no idea what to do. I stare blindly at the screen, watching the little model roof beams smashing down onto the stadium seating, and I have no idea what to do.

Cattley's voice rattles on, something about how Ranjit said it was urgent, but then he died and Cattley wasn't sure where the designs had come from since he was only looking at them as a favour to his friend, so when I rang it was quite a relief, but I don't hear the words because my ears are ringing and I suddenly grab the back of Cattley's chair, because I'm hyperventilating and it feels like I'm going to pass out.

"Hey, are you all right?"

I ignore him and try to get my breathing under control, muttering something like "Yeah, fine..." Oh my God, what do I do? Who do I tell?

I can't handle this. How would someone else handle this? How would Drew handle this?

Answer: with a near-sociopathic disregard for anything that prevented things from happening the way he wanted them to.

Don't feel, don't care. Go cold. Just cut off your emotions and act.

Tanya's in there; I'm going with that.

I force myself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then wait a few seconds and do it again, and I can feel my breathing calming down just a little, but my heart is still racing inside my chest and I feel as though I'm about to throw up.

"Do you know what these designs are for?" My voice doesn't sound like my voice and Cattley gives me an alarmed look.

"No. Ranjit said it was a theoretical design, it was…"

"This is the City of London stadium."

Cattley gives me an incredulous look. "You're winding me up." His face suddenly gets suspicious. "Hang on, can I see some ID?"

"I'm not winding you up." I point at the screen and start yelling. "That's the City of London stadium!"

Cattley is now looking at me the way most people look at crazy people outside the Tube who scream about the end of the world happening next Tuesday. "If I don't see some ID, I'm going to ask you to leave. I'll call the police if I have to."

I glance frantically round the room, and see a television in the corner. Thank you, God. Ignoring Cattley's annoyed "Hey!" from behind me, I jump across to it and switch it on, flipping through the channels until I find the match, then grab Cattley's arm and drag him over to it.

"You see this roof?" I point at the stadium on screen, where the cameraman is helpfully panning across the crowd (I search frantically but don't see anyone I know, no Tanya, no Goren, no Eames, no-one), with the temporary roof clearly visible in the background (and is it my imagination, or are the supports starting to bend, just slightly?).

Cattley's face looks like he's starting to feel the way I did a minute ago. I point to the simulation on the computer screen, looping through the beginning of another electronic catastrophe, the roof supports in their original positions, just starting to give way. "You see this roof? IT'S THE SAME ONE!"

"Oh my God." Cattley's voice sounds like he's about to throw up too, and he collapses into his chair. "I don't believe it. I just don't… how could they do that?"

"God knows. No, hang on…" Every so often I have a blinding flash of inspiration. They don't happen often, but it's like part of my brain suddenly puts things together for me. This is one of those times. As though someone else is thinking of it, it all becomes clear.

This was planned all along.

"How many people die?" I nearly feel sick at asking that, but then I think, Drew. Would Drew start panicking? No. Get all the facts, then make the decision, then act on it. Don't let yourself think, don't let yourself feel, it'll just slow you down.

"Oh shit." Cattley shakes his head. He's turned completely white, and weakly starts pressing buttons on the computer. "The stadium holds 90,000 people, 25,000 in the south stand, that's where the worst of the damage will occur…" He looks up with haunted eyes. "It could be that many. Easily more if people panic and start rushing towards the exits… like Hillsborough…"

_DON'T FEEL! _

"Do you have proof? Any print-outs, anything I can show someone?"

"Who are you?" Cattley looks like his world is falling in on him, bad choice of words, _oh God, Tanya's in the south stand – DON'T FEEL!_

"I'm a journalist. I came here because I thought Towells were cutting corners on their suppliers, wasting public money…" I break off, what's the point in trying to explain this now? Though it's becoming clearer, this was planned all along. Elahi suspected about the wrong steel being used for the roof… and he was killed because of it. This will kill far more people than bombs – thousands, not hundreds.

No, it WON'T. I don't know where that thought comes from, but it's a voice I don't recognise as being mine. It sounds like Drew's, or Tanya's.

It won't happen because I won't let it happen.

I feel as though I'm about to throw up.

"What… what happens now? Oh God…" Cattley looks across at the television screen, where the stadium currently collapsing on his computer screen is in real life filled with people. Families, kids, couples, DON'T FEEL!

"We need proof. Something we can show people…" I'm already thinking, who the hell do I tell? Ring the police? They'll think I'm a prank caller… but they'll have to take it seriously. Ring Drew, too. We might not be speaking but he should believe me.

Hold on. Think about this strategically. There's two of us here. It doesn't make sense for me to ring the police, though it ought to be me who rings Drew.

I am not staying here, I know that. Rationality or no rationality, it's taking everything I've got to keep from jumping on my bike right now this minute and breaking the speed limit all the way from here to the City of London stadium to get to Tanya and get her out.

That's it. That's the plan.

"What we're going to do is this." Cattley mutely stares at me. "You stay here and ring the police. Ring and keep ringing until you get through, then tell them who you are and what you know…"

"They won't believe me," he mutters.

"Make them believe you! I'm going. I'm going to the stadium and I'll take proof with me. I know people working there, I'll make them listen to me."

Looking back, I can't believe how stupid I was. Cattley was quite right, they didn't believe him (at least not until the roof actually fell in). I should have thought to say "Tell them there's a bomb", which would probably have got Cattley traced and arrested but would have got people out in time. Drew would have thought of that, but I didn't.

Nine people died on the spot; forty more died later from their injuries. Forty-nine people, a small number compared to the potential death of thousands, but still far, far too many.

If I'd been faster off the mark, would they have lived? I was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Here." He jumps up and starts shovelling papers off a nearby table, frantically folding them. "These are print-outs from the simulation, I was going to give them to Ranj." He pauses suddenly. "Hold on. Do you have a lap-top?"

"No, mine's at home…" Another bad decision.

Cattley takes a deep breath. "Right. You'd better take mine." He grabs one from a nearby table, piles the papers on top of it and hands them to me, then snatches up a pen drive from the table and puts that on top of the paper. "Just switch it on and stick the pen drive in, it should load automatically, just keep clicking on OK. And try not to lose the laptop, some of it's confidential…"

I clutch it tighter, in case he gets ideas about changing his mind, and start to hurry to my bike before an idea hits me. I don't know where from, because I don't usually think like this.

"Lock the doors." I turn to look at Cattley, who looks back at me with a sort of fear I'm not using to inspiring in people. "Lock all the doors and close the windows. If someone comes and asks for you, make them hold up their ID to the peephole. Don't open the door even if they're yelling "Police!" at you, unless you're one hundred percent sure that's who they are. Call me if you're not sure."

"Are you really a journalist?"

_Sort of_. "Yes, but I have contacts in the police and the security services. I'll check with them if anyone comes calling for you. Just call the police until you get through, then lock the doors and sit tight."

Cattley yells something that sounds like "Good luck" at me, but I don't hear it, because I'm already out of the door and running fast to my bike. I fumble with the laptop and the keys, eventually managing to get the pannier unlocked and the laptop and papers stowed. I shove the pen drive into the moneybelt I wear round my waist when I'm on the bike, retrieving my mobile at the same time and frantically calling Tanya's phone.

No answer. Don't do this to me!

I call again, and again, and again. I call more times that I can remember, then I start frantically calling Sienna, and get… no answer. What if the roof structure itself is blocking reception? What if they've got their phones turned off? I frantically leave messages, then text them, they'll think I'm crazy, "STADIUM ABOUT TO COLLAPSE, GET OUT NOW, NO JOKE!"

Then I call Drew and I get his answering service. I call again, and again. I try every number I have for him; he has two mobiles, one for friends, one for work, and he should know that if I'm calling him on his work number it's serious, but he still isn't answering, and eventually I settle for screaming what I know at him onto the answering service.

Then I pause, and force myself to re-call, and re-record the message so that it sounds less like I'm winding him up, and more like I'm serious, and then call his other phone, and leave the same message. Just think, focus on the goal, stay cold, don't screw up. I hope and pray that he'll believe me. My heart is utterly hammering now, because the match has kicked off. Why the hell didn't I ask Cattley how long it would take for the roof to collapse? Another mistake!

I look up at the door of his flat and wonder if I should go in and ask, but I'm already turning the key in the ignition as I think this, and the engine roars into life. I roughly yank my helmet on, and I'm going. I'm going to the stadium and I'm going to get Tanya out, and that's all that will happen, because I'm not even going to allow myself to think about anything else. That's how it will happen, I tell myself, as I take the corners away from Cattley's flat far too fast, the wheels nearly skidding through the empty streets. That's how it will happen, because I'm not going to allow it to happen any other way…


	14. Neutron Bomb

**Author's Note**:

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to **Candra**, for sending me a copy of "In the Wee Small Hours". Thank you hugely!

Having now watched "In the Wee Small Hours", I'm relieved to say that the timeline I've been running this fic on actually does fit pretty well with the timeline from Season Five.

If anyone's keeping score, it goes something like this:

**July 2005** – the events of Bulletproof Armour, of the events described in Tanya's chapters in this fic, and of Alex's visits to Drew in hospital with Tanya and Jack.

**September 2005** – the events leading up to the arrest of Harold Garrett, including the incident with Bobby's mom, Sienna's return to New York, and Jack's visit to Newcastle.

**Mid-****November 2005** – Sienna and Bobby's chapters in this fic, also Sienna & Alex's visit to the bar as mentioned in chapter 8.

**December 2005** – the trial of Harold Garrett.

I'd also like to say that I have recently realised that I don't thank my beta-reader, **blucougar57**, nearly as much as I should. I should really be starting every single chapter of this fic with huge thanks to her. So I'm going to start rectifying that now. Thanks hugely to **blucougar57**, without whom this fic, and particularly this chapter (which was inspired by one of her comments on my last fic), wouldn't be happening!

_Monday __December 13__th__, New York._

_Criminal Courts Building._

_Trial, part 46._

"She didn't want a boy; she wanted a man…"

Eames' voice continued, but he barely heard it.

_Focus, Goren_.

He tried to focus, but for over two weeks, now, his thoughts had been in turmoil.

He forced himself to try to focus on the moment, to look ahead, to paste an appropriate expression of support on his face… but Eames didn't need his support. She was more than capable of handling this on her own. Truth be told, he wished he didn't need to be there, but it would look odd if he were not, so he went, and felt guilty that he had wished, even briefly, to put his personal feelings ahead of the job.

This case, though…

It had gotten to him. There was no denying that, and every time he was in court as the trial proceeded, he was reminded of it all.

There were times when having an excellent memory was a curse. He hated thinking that way, knowing perfectly well that without his ability to remember all sorts of obscure facts, to memorise events and recall them perfectly, he would have no job. He would not be Detective First Grade Robert Goren, NYPD Major Case. But there were times when he wished he could not hear the voices from the past, their spite and scorn.

_I should be strong. I should push this away from me. I'm a grown man and I should be in control of my own thoughts. _

Yet still they came, mocking him. At least he wasn't going crazy, he thought mordantly, listening to imaginary voices in his head. The intonations were unmistakably those of two real, living men. One American, arrogant with age and power, one British, arrogant with cocksure self-righteousness.

As he watched Eames on the stand, he tried his hardest to focus on the case, but every time he heard the name, Harold Garrett, the memory of that day in the judge's office would return. He should feel proud of it, he knew. He had taken abuse, the worst kind of personal abuse, from his suspect, and had not let it get to him, had not given in to the human urge to defend himself, but had remained himself, Bobby Goren. Had taken Garrett's attack and turned it round on him, so that he convicted himself out of his own mouth.

Yet even the memory of the look on Garrett's face as the realisation dawned that he had just confessed to statutory rape in front of two senior detectives and an Assistant District Attorney did not erase the memory of those vicious words.

"_Do you know what sort of unstable personality you've entrusted your case to, Mr Carver?__ I have it right here, from his own mother, whom he keeps locked up in a psych ward. This is a man who is still full of spite for his dead father. A man who will not lift a hand to help his gambling addict brother."_

That had wounded him deeply. It had hurt horribly at the time, and it still did now, but he couldn't show it.

They were all depending on him. Eames, and Logan, and Barek, and Deakins, and Carver, and, most terribly of all, the families of the dead girls. He was the star of Major Case; unless he held it together, everything would fall apart. Now was not the time for him to give in to self-doubt, to justify himself over and over again, the thoughts rattling through his head…

_I can't help her, she needs proper medication and constant medical attention, he left us to cope when we were barely more than children, so that Frank broke under the strain and I had to look after both of them, I can't help Frank, can't help an addict, all I'll do is enable him like I used to do, until one day I realised my brother didn't care any more if I loved him, just so long as I keep bailing him out, and I had to leave him, had to leave him to sink in the hope that he might realise that he didn't really want to live the rest of his life like this…_

But he couldn't stop himself. Garrett might be a pathetic specimen of humanity, but he had after all been a judge, with the level of knowledge of human nature that implied, and he had shaped his attack on Goren to detonate with maximum effect, to pierce the armour he had so carefully built up to shield himself, so that he could live with himself and do his job.

At least he was managing to hide it, he thought. He was keeping going, and no-one suspected. He had never let it show… except on that one night, when he and Sienna had argued. Her voice echoed in his head, too, female and young and angry, _"You think it was always a barrel of laughs living with Bobby Goren, headfucker extraordinaire?"_

She couldn't have known what he was thinking, what he was suffering, how those words were like a generous sprinkling of salt on an open wound.

Yet she _had_ listened, he reminded himself, and, just for a minute, his mood lightened.

She _had_ listened. He hadn't been able to tell her everything (and yet again he felt that wrench of guilt that he was not being honest with her, not trusting her), but he had steeled his nerve, and shared a little of what was eating his soul.

"_Sienna, all I can think about is that I'm just a complete bastard, that the real reason I joined the police was so I could indulge my own liking for manipulating people less smart than me." _

And she had treated that with respect. She had listened, and reassured him, and loved him.

He found his mind drifting away, just for a few seconds, to that time two months ago, her first weekend back in New York , when they had gone to his apartment together…

The door clicked shut behind them, and for a minute, they stared at each other, neither quite knowing the right words to say.

Eventually, Sienna began to say, "Well, I'm here now, Bobby, this is it.."

But he cut her off, bending slightly and wrapping his arms fiercely around her, kissing her with a desperate passion that surprised himself. He knew how much he wanted Sienna, how much he had thought about her during the two long months it had taken her to secure her new job, hand over her old job, say goodbye to London, and arrange to move back to New York, but he hadn't realised how badly he had desired her. How much he had wanted to feel her warm body against his. The memories of their brief time together in London had been utterly insufficient.

Sienna's mouth opened against his, and her arms came up around him. She kissed him back, hard, her passion obviously equal to his. Suddenly, she pulled away, almost violently, and he was rapt, held by the fire in her eyes, transfixed.

"Shut the door, Bobby," she commanded him. "Shut the door and lock it, because we don't want to be disturbed."

He had done so, and caught up with her in his bedroom, and wrapped her in his arms again, so that they both fell onto the bed together. Their bodies melded together as if they were trying to fuse into one person. He felt Sienna's hands slide down his body, almost aggressively, reaching for his belt and undoing it, ripping down the zip, then fiercely shoving down his pants, gripping the waistband of his boxers and pushing them down too, so that he was exposed, proud and ready for her. He felt her hands wrap tight around him, heard a soft groan in the pit of her throat, and chuckled softly. He growled softly into her ear, teasingly, "You haven't changed, have you?"

She lifted her head, smirking proudly, unashamed of her needs. "Not at all. Except that I think I've become more depraved with age."

He returned the smirk, noting the way her nipples were tight and ready through the thin silk of her blouse. He had thought their first time together after being apart might be slow, tentative… but instead, it was as thought they had never been apart. As though they were starting all over again.

"You never could keep your hands off it…" He kissed his way hungrily up her neck, pressing his teeth against her flesh, feeling her squirm with arousal. "I used to fantasise about that. I used to love watching you try to hide the fact that all you could think about was my cock."

Before, he thought, she would have blushed at the language, and dropped her head to modestly hide her arousal, but now she just gripped him harder, so that he groaned involuntarily at the thought of what she was going to do to him. As she rubbed him, teasingly, then slid a condom over the rock hard erection that had developed in about ten seconds flat, she murmured: "Oh, and you didn't think the same things about me? Every time I bent over your desk at work, you weren't eyeing my ass and thinking about pulling up my skirt, and parting my legs, and…"

He kissed her again, hungrily, and thrust hard against her. She growled softly, and began to undo his shirt. He let her undo it fully, then gripped her wrists gently, pushing her hands back down, then once she had the idea, he began to undress her, unfastening her blouse, pausing just for a second to watch her breasts heave inside the flimsy silk of her bra, then he reached behind her and undid that too, yanking it off her so that her breasts were naked, exposed to his kisses and tongue and hands. She writhed against him as he slid a hand down her taut stomach muscles, shoving his hand down inside her panties and finding her warm and ready. Unable to stop himself, he grasped the waistband of her pants and pulled them down hard as she thrust her hips up, lifting herself off the bed.

She couldn't be more ready, he thought triumphantly. She wanted this every bit as badly as he did. Perhaps more badly; as he dropped back down on top of her, she was already reaching round to grip his backside and pull him against her and then inside her. Her groan was deep and primitive and needy as he filled her, and all rational thought left him in the sheer joy of thrusting inside the warm, passionate woman wrapped around him…

Afterwards, they lay in the afterglow, talking of everything and nothing, as Sienna nuzzled lazily against the broad muscles of his chest, warm and naked and purring with satisfaction, murmuring, "Bobby, I don't think I want to put any clothes on for _at least_ the next twenty-four hours.." and as he cradled her body gently, he knew with a soaring sense of hope that it would all be alright…

_But that didn't last, did it?_

And, with a wrench, he was back in the present. Back where his demons could find him.

He should know better. He should rise above it. He should laugh at himself for even listening to Garrett's words for one minute, for being so foolish as to let them have any space in his head whatsoever (and that he _was_ that foolish, that he was being weak when everyone needed him to be strong, was yet another source feeding the sick guilt that roiled inside him).

Harold Garrett was a rapist. A pathetic, broken buffoon who forced himself on a drugged young girl so that, for a few seconds, he could pretend he wasn't threatened by the youth and strength of his son, whose pathetic hero-worship was made all the sadder by the fact that his father wasn't worthy of his devotion. A man whose virile image of himself was a delusion, who was incapable of seeing himself as he really was; an infirm old man incapable of having sex with any woman who wasn't flopped over a desk and willing to lie back and think of America…

And for a few seconds, his memories took him back to a rooftop in England, and that voice echoed in his head once more: _"Stop with the physical intimidation crap, Goren, it doesn't work. I'm in better shape than you…"_, and he wished he could roar "No!" at the top of his lungs, but he was in the middle of the courtroom, and that really would get people thinking that he was going crazy.

He was _not_ Harold Garrett. He was _not _threatened by another, younger, man. One whose voice echoed in his head, recorded words on Sienna's answerphone playing over and over in his head, _"Hi, SiSi. It's me, returning your call…"_

Was it his imagination, or had Sienna seemed distant from him, distracted, ever since that night?

He was being ridiculous. Sienna had chosen him. She had returned to New York to be with him. He had to focus on that.

_Yes, focus on that Goren. Focus on that and maybe you'll forget that she was lying to you the first ti__me around, and now she's lying to you again_.

He felt the sick wrench of guilt again. How could he suspect Sienna like this? How could he think so harshly of a woman who had given up her life and friends in London to be with him?

_Because she only did it because she couldn't get what she wanted. Because you were the consolation prize, and she figured she might as well settle, since there was nothing better on the table. _

_She lied to you, that first time. She never told you that she stayed in touch with that bastard Davenport, that the two of them used to meet up in London when she was travelling and talk about you behind your back. _

_No! _he thought angrily. That couldn't be right! And yet it was, because he knew now that Sienna had made her decision to leave him and move to London because Davenport had asked her to.

_Because he fucked with her head. Because he fucked with her head the same way YOU do with your suspects. Because he needed bait, and she was it. _

That was a better, if bitter, thought, but it still didn't silence the voices, the doubts that ate at him in the wee small hours of the night, when he couldn't sleep and it was dark and it felt like the world would never be light.

_But she stayed. She moved because she wanted to be with him. Because she wanted to fuck Davenport, not you, and who's to say __that, after she had that disaster with that British detective, Durham, Davenport didn't take advantage of that, too? He used her as bait, caught his man, and then fucked her afterwards, too. _

_And may__be she liked it. Maybe she liked having someone her own age on top of her, not someone nearly fifteen years older with the beginnings of a paunch and grey hairs._

He wanted to shake his head, but forced himself to remain calm, to look every inch the professional detective, aware that here of all places he had to look as though he was utterly calm and confident. He was being completely stupid, he thought. Davenport was gay, damn it _(or maybe he's not, maybe he's bi and likes women, too_, whispered his thoughts, but he pushed them away desperately). He was in a relationship with another man.

_And what's to say that the reason Sienna got so badly depressed during that second year in London was _because_ of that? Because she left New York in the hope of being with him, and he decided he'd rather have another man than her? That she was pretending to her friends that everything was fine, but that when she heard that he'd betrayed her, that was the final straw, and there you were, on a plate, begging her to come back, and she decided she might as well take that, since there was nothing better on offer…_

He sighed, feeling utterly torn.

Perhaps he should just do it. Just ask Sienna, outright, "Did you and Davenport have a relationship whilst you were in London?"

_Oh, yes, that will work. She'll be furious. She'll say it's none of your business__. And how dare you be so insecure, anyway, when she never asks you for support? Do you ever think how much she must miss her friends? She stifles that so that you won't feel bad about it, how dare you do any less? _

Maybe if he explained to her how he felt?

_Oh, yes, go on, ask her for reassurance. Show her how weak you are._

And then the thought that he never allowed himself to have stirred in its dark cave in the depths of his mind, and whispered _But remember, everyone leaves you. Everyone leaves you, Bobby. And if you're not careful, if you show her that you're not her strong, loving Bobby… she'll leave too_.

Not everyone leaves me, he thought angrily. Not everyone leaves.

Garrett's voice echoed around the courtroom, and the sound of his own name forced his mind back to reality. "You testified that you were present when Ethan Garrett was… encouraged… by Detective Goren to implicate his father."

Carver was on his feet, objecting immediately, and Garrett's lawyer was forced to rephrase. He watched as the man tried to paint him as a man with a vendetta against imperfect fathers, but he could see Carver, and, more importantly, Eames, doing their best to defend him. He could see Eames' anger at the line of questioning, her instinctive urge to defend him, to defend her partner, and the thought comforted him.

_Eames hasn't__ left me. Sure, she and I had a few minor problems at the beginning… _

_But she's never left. Never doubted me. I can trust her. _

The thought brightened him. He could trust Eames. The one person in all the world who had faith in him.

"You're saying, you trust his judgement."

He watched proudly as Eames replied without hesitation, "Yes, I do."

He relaxed, but then tensed, because Garrett's lawyer was returned to his bench, retrieving a piece of laminated paper, it looked like a letter, it _was_ a letter, he was holding it out to Eames…

And then the man spoke. Seven words with the force of an exploding neutron bomb.

"Then maybe you'd care to explain this…"


	15. The Opposite of Happy

I'd like to thank **Megan** and **Candra** again, for their dedication to spreading the good news of Criminal Intent across the globe.

Also, as always, huge thanks to **blucougar57**, my beta-reader, who spots the errors, picks up the inconsistencies, provides the encouragement and generally does a kick-ass job every time. Thanks.

_Cassie's Place Bar and Grill._

_New York. _

_One cold January evening, shortly after the conclusion of the trial of Harold Garrett. _

She took the drink and slurped greedily, rather than sipped, wincing slightly as the salt on the glass rim stung a small cut on her lip, then sighing as the cold tequila, Cointreau and lime juice hit her system. _Damn, that's better_.

"Guess you needed that, huh?" The bartender's amiable voice jolted her slightly, sending a slight twinge of guilt through her as she remembered that Plan A for this evening had been to sip the same drink all night in the hope of staying in control.

_Oh well, he's right, I need this. Looks like Plan B it is_.

In the interests of furthering Plan B – get at least one drink in her system fast in the hope that it would smooth the rough edges off the evening – she took another gulp, then smiled at the bartender and strolled across to their usual table.

It was not that she and Sienna met _very_ often. Usually not more than once a month, unless, rarely, there was a social occasion at which she and Bobby were both required, in which case Sienna, as Bobby's girlfriend, would almost always attend. That had happened a couple of times in the – what was it, two, maybe three? months since Sienna had returned to New York. Partly because they were both busy with their own lives and careers.

Partly because both of them remembered that time when Sienna had called by the bullpen when Alex was running late to meet her and walk to the bar together, and Bobby had waved Sienna goodbye with a good-natured "Hey, if the two of you are going to complain about me behind my back, make it a late one… I won't wait up". Though he had meant it light-heartedly, both women had recognised a certain hint of truth in the joke, and made sure in future not to give the impression that they were ganging up on him.

Equally, though, as the two women in Bobby Goren's life, they felt it important to make an effort to be friends, and thus they met every so often for drinks and a conversation, sometimes about family, sometimes about work, sometimes, inevitably, about Bobby.

She enjoyed these sessions, though, equally, she was glad they didn't happen more often. Alex Eames was well aware that Sienna might or might not become a permanent fixture in Bobby's life, and the two of them becoming close friends would lead to a very awkward situation if her partner and his girlfriend (she could never really quite think of Sienna as Bobby's _partner_) ever broke up.

_Don't ill-wish, Alex. You've done enough damage this week_.

She sighed wearily and closed her eyes. _"Acquired taste", Alex. "Acquired taste". Keep thinking that and eventually the guilt will go away… _

She kept replaying that scene over and over again.

You did not get to be a Major Case detective by flinching easily. Not at threatening suspects, not at angry superiors, not at smart-ass lawyers.

One of the skills you were never formally taught, but which every good detective learned if they were going to survive on the job, was not to flinch when confronted with their own mistakes.

That time on the stand, though… she could still see Garrett's lawyer turning towards her. Still feel her stomach dropping, her heart tripping over, her face feeling icy cold as she recognised it, and was forced to read aloud the words she had secretly hoped had vanished, never to see the light of day again.

She knew Bobby had been hurt. She had seen it in his eyes.

She and Carver had done what they could to repair the damage. Rationally, she knew they'd succeeded. She'd explained on the stand, and she knew – knew as a cop, and an experienced witness – that her testimony had had the desired effect, redeeming Bobby in the eyes of the court and the jury.

In the eyes of their fellow cops, though… it had been all round One Police Plaza. Nasty little rumours. _Hey, did you hear, Alex Eames, she asked for a new partner a while back? _Or worse, speculation about why she'd recanted the letter. The truth was never as juicy as what people could make up for themselves. So far she'd heard everything from the theory that Bobby had seduced her, to the old favourite, that she needed him for her career, that without his brains, his ability to profile, she was nothing, that she needed to be one half of Goren-and-Eames in order to stay on in Major Case (never mind the fact that she, not Bobby, was the senior partner, and had been in Major Case for some time before he joined the squad…)

None of it mattered, really. It hurt, a little, but she didn't really notice. She was too full of remorse for what she had done to Bobby, albeit with the best of motives. She had kept it secret for no reason other than it would hurt him to know she'd ever doubted him, and she didn't see the need for that. _Isn't that what they always say in those advice columns?_ she thought gloomily, finishing the margarita. _That telling someone something like this, like if you've cheated on them once, or you had an affair a long time ago, it's best never to tell, because it just expunges your conscience at their expense?_

She pictured him again, outside the courtroom.

_It's okay. I am an acquired taste._

That smile, that Bobby Goren smile…

He had meant. Half-meant it, anyway, and she was deeply grateful to him for being the bigger person, for rising above it. Except that ever since then, he'd been just a little distant from her. They'd tried to carry on as normal, working together as efficiently as ever as the case reached its conclusion, and perhaps she was over-reacting, but she would have sworn she could see him pausing before he spoke to her. That she could see him remembering her lack of faith in him, so long ago.

_Well, what else did I expect?_ She knew that of course, Bobby would have to process that knowledge and work through it, and that that would take time and couldn't be rushed. But she had to stifle a feeling of guilt every time she spoke to him now, and that in itself was doing nothing to help the two of them get back to normal.

And he had been distant, anyway, of late. Distant in a way that reminded her of the grim time just before Sienna had left for London. One margarita into the evening, and she was relaxed enough to admit that for some time, now, she had allowed herself a little feeling of superiority over the younger woman. Sienna had hurt Bobby, and she, Eames, had stuck by him, helped him work through it, been loyal and true to her partner, instead of cutting and running.

Ridiculous, she knew, but true. It rankled a little that this was no longer the case, but she made herself let go of the feeling, reminding herself that, given how difficult Bobby could be to keep up with at work, she could only imagine what it was like trying to keep up with him on a personal level. She had seen glimpses of his demons; Sienna had had to live with them, and, indeed, was still doing so.

A sudden movement in front of her caught her eye, and she looked up from her glass to see Sienna herself, appearing at the other side of the table as if conjured by thought.

"Bad day?"

"No, just a long one," she parried. "You too, from the looks of things."

"I was seeing my therapist; he had to fit me in after work." Sienna rolled her eyes and smiled briefly, but her expression was tight.

"How did it go?"

"Shit. Since you ask." Sienna sighed explosively, then stood up again, leaving her coat in possession of her chair. "Drink?"

"Same again," Eames replied to Sienna's retreating back. She rolled her eyes, and tried to repress the thought, _damn, this was a bad, bad idea_. She had no idea exactly how Sienna felt about the revelation that she, the one person Bobby had come to think he could trust, had at one time doubted him so severely that she had no longer wanted him for her partner, but she could hazard a few guesses, none of them good.

Then again, if she'd turned down Sienna's drinks invitation, it would have caused yet more awkwardness between her and Bobby, and thus the whole miserable cycle would have continued. Better to face the situation head-on and get it over with, she'd thought. She was now thinking that this had not been one of her better ideas.

Returning from the bar, Sienna put the drink down in front of her, then drained half of her own large vodka concoction with a hefty swig.

"It really didn't go well, huh?" she asked.

Sienna sighed wearily, and flopped bonelessly deeper into the chair. "No, it did not."

_Office of Dr N. D. Haines, therapist._

_Interpol Headquarters, New York. _

_Two hours earlier._

…I mount the stairs to Dr Haines' office at the back of Interpol's New York headquarters with a feeling of extreme tiredness. I don't want to do this, but I ought to make the appointment, shouldn't cancel on him at such short notice. _Besides_, I think bitterly, _at least he _wants_ to listen to me, unlike just about every other person I want to talk to._

I settle into the chair opposite him, and paste on an appropriate smile. One second later, and I find myself wondering why I'm bothering. I know Haines' expressions pretty well by now, and he obviously knows mine. There's something about his face, a slight frown, that tells me he knows I'm smiling because it's socially required, not because I actually feel happy. Right now I'm the opposite of happy: pissed and afraid, in equal measures.

He leans forward and asks his usual question: "How do you feel?"

We often do this. He asks me how I'm feeling, and I free-associate, saying aloud the first thing that comes into my mind.

"Fearful." I smile tiredly. "I am, quite literally, full of fear."

He tips his head on one side, encouraging me to talk. "Go on." When I don't reply at first, he probes gently, "Is there a particular source of the fear?"

"There's a ton of them. Well, that's not quite true, I'm exaggerating." I sigh and begin again. "Okay, here goes. My partner isn't talking to me. I feel like I've done something wrong and he won't tell me what. Pretty much all of my friends are on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. My partner, whom I love very much, has just learned that the one person he trusts most in all the world once thought so little of him as a cop that she asked for him to be replaced as her partner. I'm beginning to think I quit a job I was good at and moved away from my friends to be with someone who can't talk to me and who I can't help."

He doesn't say anything, sensing that I've left the most important thing unsaid, perhaps thinking to himself that all of these things are reasons for me to feel _bad_, but none of them are much of a source of _fear_…

I take a deep breath and spit it out: "And my ex-boyfriend is coming up for parole."

I smile bitterly. "My ex-boyfriend the Detective Inspector, whom I fell for very quickly on the rebound, who I came to hate very quickly after I learned that he was passing information to the people he was supposing to be trying to catch, and who I helped put into prison." I take a deep breath and finish off: "Who my _supposed_ best friend brought me over to London to help him catch."

"I don't quite follow. Could you describe the circumstances surrounding that a little more?"

_Do __I have to?_ I think rebelliously. Dr Haines surely knows the situation. He is, after all, one of several trained therapists Interpol keeps on staff. Ours is not a stress-free position, and every so often Interpol staff need someone to talk to. Someone we can trust to keep our secrets.

I know, and Haines knows, that Interpol watches him. That if they even suspected he was passing on anything from any of his patients' sessions to the wrong people, he'd lose his license to practice in the blink of an eye... I guess he wants me to describe this to see what parts of it get an emotional reaction from me, which parts he should be focussing on to readjust me into a happy person.

I still don't like talking about this, though, but nevertheless, I recap the whole story for Haines' benefit. I know it off by heart, anyway.

Drew wanted bait, a honeytrap to catch DI John Durham, a corrupt young officer in the Metropolitan Police who was passing on information about police operations to the human trafficking gangs he was supposed to be trying to catch. Drew decided that, as a young, attractive female who spoke the languages used by said gangs, I would be perfect for this role.

Drew decided further that the solution to his problem was therefore to break up myself and Bobby's relationship, bring me halfway across the world, and throw me at Durham in the hope that I might stick. Drew then watched as I fell for Durham on the rebound, waited for the right moment to tell me that the new love of my life was a corrupt bastard of the worst order, then persuaded me that I needed to help him by betraying John.

And I had. I had worked as a mole for Drew, carefully gathering evidence, all the while being sure never to let on that I suspected John, giving him no reason to suspect me. I really had surprised myself with my own capacity to be a duplicitous bitch…

Haines interrupts me. "Is that how you think of yourself?"

"It's how I think about myself when I think about what I did to John."

"Is that how you think about Interpol agents who do similar work?"

"We don't use honeytraps."

"But you do use informers, many of whom must enjoy similarly close relationships with the people they inform on, even if those relationships aren't necessarily sexual."

I resist the urge to glare, largely because he's right. "No, I don't think that about them. I have the greatest respect for everyone we employ. The difference is, I did have feelings for John. I was lying to him, and I know it was justified, I know I did the right thing… but emotionally, that's how it feels. I led him on."

"And now you're afraid of him."

"Yes." I sigh again, and explain to Dr Haines that Drew had originally intended simply to use me to gather enough information from Durham's house, maybe listen in on a few telephone conversations, until they had enough proof to threaten him with trial and conviction. The intention had been that, faced with the loss of his career, his freedom, and probably his life once he was exposed as a traitor, John could then be persuaded to turn on the gangs and work as an informer for our side.

None of us had foreseen that he would actually take me with him to the underworld bars he made his deals in. I still didn't quite know why he'd done that. The only explanation Drew and I had been able to come up with was that John liked to take risks, got a thrill out of it, and taking me (his innocent, trusting girlfriend, as far as he knew) to the same places he made deals in was one of the biggest risks he could take.

I could hardly refuse to go with him. Drew had hastily set up backup, but I wasn't trained for undercover work, and I was made by one of the people John was meeting…

I take a deep breath from the diaphragm to calm myself, centre myself, and the threatening flashback of that exact moment receded. I would never, ever forget that moment of terror and pain. It was not the first time in my life I'd feared I might die, but it was the only time I'd faced it alone.

It had changed me. Made me stronger, yes, more determined, more… ruthless. I could fight now. Not very well (despite Tanya's best efforts to teach me), but my self-defence skills were at least better than they had been, and I was a pretty good shot, practising twice a week.

Even so, I still didn't feel safe, and the knowledge that Drew, once my closest friend, had done this to me was yet another reason I was feeling angry and afraid.

"…so, anyway, they did a deal." I finish explaining to Haines that Drew's plan had been screwed up by what had happened. Most of the evidence they had on John was either circumstantial or could not be used in court because of the way MI5 had gathered it, and I hadn't been undercover long enough to gather enough evidence that _could_ be used.

In the end, John was tried for tax evasion, stripped of his rank in the Metropolitan police, and sentenced to a year in prison. I had recently learned from one of my contacts in the UK that MI5 had agreed that he could go into the witness protection programme following his discharge from prison, since it was unlikely he'd survive more than a few days outside the prison walls once the gang he had been working with knew he was free.

No-one was happy about this, but it was the best that anyone could do.

"You still haven't explained to me exactly why you're afraid."

_Actually I have_, I think, but I know from past experience that Haines likes to go over the same things again and again in the hope that I'll tell them slightly differently and give him more of an insight. (The parallel between this and a police interrogation is occasionally a source of twisted amusement to me.)

"Because John Durham has been approved for parole – probation, they call it in the UK. He'll be out of prison within a year."

"And that thought concerns you."

"Yes, it does. The thought of John being out in the world..." I shake my head. "It shouldn't. He's on the other side of the world, he'll go straight into witness protection..."

"But you're still afraid. Do you think your fear is rational?"

"I don't know." I shake my head. "I just don't know. On the one hand, Interpol will provide me with protection if there's real proof that I need it, and nearly everyone I know works in law enforcement or something similar, so it's not as though they can't look after themselves… But on one level, I'm not convinced. John was a very, very clever and resourceful man. He still is. And I don't think a year in solitary is going to have made him feel any more kindly towards me."

"Is that the only reason you're afraid?" Haines leans forward inquiringly, and I am irrationally furious. _If I wanted to tell you everything, damnit, I would be telling you. I don't want to talk about it, _I think.

"Yes, it is," I reply as calmly as I can.

"Really?"

"_Yes_." I smile tightly. "Thank you for seeing me."

"The session isn't over yet."

"I don't feel like talking any more."

"You're welcome to sit here and see if you change your mind."

"What good will it do?" I hadn't meant to say that, but it slipped out, and suddenly I couldn't stop talking. "I sit here and talk over everything with you, but it does no good. I shouldn't be talking to you. I should be talking to Bobby and Drew, but neither of them wants to listen."

I look up at him tiredly. "What's the use? The one time I need them, I need both of them to help me, they're not there. Bobby and I should be facing this together, but right now I feel like if I say or do anything other than my Perfect Supportive Girlfriend routine he'll retreat further into his shell and I'll lose him for good. Drew and I have only just started speaking to each other again and I still haven't even gotten an apology from him for what he did; if I tell him about how fucking scared I am he'll probably just stop talking to me again."

"Would that be a bad thing?"

"_Yes, it fucking well would!"_

I hadn't intended to shout that, and both of us look slightly stunned. Haines suddenly looks very speculative, and I feel a sudden deep urge to leave the room immediately.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you."

"Do you want to talk about this some more?"

"Like I said, no, I don't. This isn't helping."

I stand up and shake my head tiredly, resisting the urge to rub my face. Right now a Black Russian or three with Alex is about the only thing I can think of that's going to make this feeling go away, albeit temporarily.

"Sorry, Dr Haines. I know you're trying to help, but you can't."

I turn and leave.

_Cassie's Place Bar and Grill, New York. _

_Two hours later._

"What happened?" Eames asked, only half expecting an answer.

Sienna rubbed her face tiredly. "Oh, the usual. I ended up talking about John. That never goes well."

Eames didn't miss the sudden flash of feeling – guilt? remorse? – that crossed Sienna's face, but it was over so quickly, she could hardly determine what it was. She gulped a little more margarita.

"I'm not mad with you, you know."

_Huh? That was out of left-field…_ Quickly, Eames marshalled her thoughts and mumbled "Thanks."

Sienna smiled wryly, and stirred her cocktail. "Really, Alex, I'm not. I think I know why you did it, and I don't blame you."

Part of Eames' mind wanted to leave it at that, but a bigger part, the part that liked to get at the truth, wanted to continue. "Okay, then, tell me why I never wanted Bobby to find out that I once wrote a letter asking for a new partner. Which I then rescinded almost immediately."

Sienna smiled thoughtfully, and a little sadly. "Because you're his friend. Because you care about his feelings. Because you figured he would never find out, and if he did, it would wreck the good relationship the two of you have. Really, Alex, I've met lots of cops, all over the world, and the two of you are… unique. Anyone would want you working for them."

Eames smiled wryly, seeing through the flattery. "Okay, we're not really talking about me anymore, are we?"

Sienna returned the wry smile. "I guess not." She tipped her head on one side. "Really, though, Alex… why did you take back the letter, if you felt strongly enough to write it in the first place?"

Her first instinct was to retort that Sienna didn't know her well enough to have the right to ask that question, but she paused before replying long enough to change her mind. Sienna might not know _her_ that well, but as Bobby's partner, she had the right to ask.

She sighed, tried to put it into words. _Funny how painful this still is…_ "I suppose… when I wrote it, it was like therapy, getting it all out onto the page. Then I marched straight into the Captain's office and handed it over, but almost as soon as I left his office…"

She paused. "I sat down at my desk, and I looked at the casefiles in front of me, and for the first time in years, I realised I didn't feel depressed, or angry, or… like I was stuck on a treadmill that would never stop rolling. And I knew that was because of Bobby, because, for all his weirdness…" Sienna nodded knowingly "… he was a good cop, and our solve rate was the highest I'd had with any of my partners. I asked myself, could I try to make it work with him just a bit longer, to see if we could get used to each other? When I realised the answer was yes, I went straight back in there and asked to rescind the letter." She grinned. "It was just sitting there, on top of his in-tray. Like he knew it wasn't worth doing anything with it, because I'd be back in there soon asking for it back."

Sienna returned the grin, and seemed about to speak, when she was interrupted, "Now, can I buy either of you two ladies a drink?"

"Thank you, but we're good," Eames replied automatically. The speaker was a middle-aged man, who had probably been handsome in his younger days, but who was losing the battle with a receding hairline and an expanding waist.

"Oh, come now. Two lovely ladies like yourselves, sat in a corner all on your own…"

"We like it that way," Eames replied. "Why don't you go find someone who needs a drink?"

"Oh, the two of you look like you need a drink," the man replied, eyeing the empty glasses in front of them.

Before Eames could reply, Sienna leaned forward, made eye contact and growled: "We. Are. Not. Interested. Please. Go. Away."

"Jesus, only trying to be friendly," the man muttered, turning round and returning to the bar. Eames raised an eyebrow at her.

"I used to be polite to them, but they always seem to interpret it as "Please try harder", until I ended up telling them to fuck off." Sienna slurped the rest of her drink, then turned round and caught the barman's eye. "Drew once suggested to me that I should just go straight to the telling them to fuck off stage, since it would save time. He had a point."

Two drinks arrived in front of them as if by magic. Eames wondered briefly if the barman had a thing for redheads. "Sienna, there's a big difference between what happened with me and Bobby, and what happened with you and Davenport."

Sienna's head snapped up. Her expression was not quite a glare, but it was decidedly unfriendly. Eames realised with a jolt that she was still in the old habit of thinking of Sienna as Bobby's young, well-meaning girlfriend. Sienna's expression, a mixture of anger and calculation, wiped that from her mind; the younger woman suddenly looked a lot older. Eames was reminded that Sienna was in fact an Interpol Section Head now _and no doubt has started to think of cops as people who work for her…_

Nevertheless, she was not intimidated, returning Sienna's gaze with a clear, calm expression of her own, until the anger faded from the other woman's expression, and she eventually nodded, looking tired. "I know, Alex. I know there's a difference."

Eames sensed suddenly that this, really, was what Sienna wanted to talk about, and decided on impulse to push just a little harder. "Davenport lied to you. He broke up you and Bobby, he watched you fall for someone who he knew was corrupt and deliberately didn't warn you so that he could use you as bait. He used you, put your life at risk, and got you badly injured."

"Alex, _please_." Sienna's voice was suddenly very tired and very strained. She looked up with painful eyes. "I know all that. I know it, and I can see it in Bobby's eyes if I even try to raise the subject." She sighed heavily. "Did you know, Drew visited me in the hospital nearly every day after I was injured?"

"So he damned well should have done; he got you shot!"

"Yeah, he did." Sienna looked at her earnestly. "But Alex, he did try to make it up to me. He introduced me to two people who became my greatest friends. He taught me to fight, to shoot, so that I'd never be helpless again. He listened when I was angry at how long it was taking me to recover… He was my friend, Alex. He and I, we… hung out together. Had dinner together, went to bars together, even went on vacation together with Jack and Tanya... He was my friend, and he taught me so much."

"He also didn't ever tell you the truth."

"Well, _you'd_ be the expert on that."

Eames glared at Sienna, thinking, _that was uncalled for._ Sienna returned the glare with an unapologetic expression that somehow managed to imply _You hurt my boyfriend, be grateful I'm not MORE pissed_.

"Sienna, it sounds to me like everything that Davenport did for you, he did out of a guilty conscience."

Sienna suddenly smiled. "Yes. And isn't that interesting, since people in his line of work aren't supposed to have a conscience about doing what they have to do to get what they want?"

"What does Bobby think about this?"

Sienna's head abruptly dropped into her hands, and her shoulders shook.

_Shit, that was obviously the wrong thing to say_… She tentatively reached out and patted the younger woman's arm.

Sienna took a deep breath, lifted her head up, and visibly tried to master herself. "I don't know, Alex. I don't know because he won't talk to me. It's like I've done something wrong and he won't tell me what. If I'm supportive and try to get him to talk about what's bothering him, he brushes me off. If I try to ignore it when he's in a mood and act like we're a happy couple, he acts like he's… just going through the motions or something. If I try to talk about what's bothering me, he looks guilty. It's like I have to pretend I didn't leave all of my friends behind just to keep him happy, and it's not like I want him to feel grateful or that he has to make it up to me, I just want to be able to talk to him." She took a breath. "Either that, or he says everything you've just said about Drew, only more nasty."

"Sienna… it's not really that surprising that he doesn't like to talk about someone who got you shot, or that he's angry about it."

"I KNOW!" Sienna nearly shouted, so loudly that several other drinkers nearby flinched, and some turned to look. She dropped her voice a little. "Sometimes I'm pissed with Drew too! Sometimes I think about what he did, about what happened between me and John…" She winced. "Just the thought that I slept with him, now, that makes me feel sick, knowing what he was doing! Drew's responsible for that and there are times when I could throttle him!"

Sienna's face suddenly fell, and she looked like she might cry again. "But see, Alex… I want to believe that Drew was sorry. That he might have told me. That, no matter how things started, he was my friend and he didn't just screw me over. That I wasn't completely dumb to believe we were close. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Drew is the complete bastard everyone seems to think he is. In which case, I'm just a naïve idiot with very poor judgement." She stifled a sob. "But I don't know, because the one person who might be able to help me understand won't let me talk about it! I'm so sick of this."

Eames was uncertain what to say, but was saved from replying by Sienna's suddenly standing up and heading for the ladies' washroom. She rubbed her face and finished her drink. _Well_. She hadn't quite thought of it that way, but it did make perfect sense that Sienna would want to believe that Davenport had been her friend, if only to keep some self-respect. It was easy to forget just how big a sacrifice Sienna had made for Bobby, she thought with a wince.

As Sienna returned, Eames stood up too. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

"You want to call it a night?"

Eames was about to say yes, but stopped. "Actually, why don't we go to my place? I've got some tuna noodle casserole that needs eating."

"Food. Good thinking." Sienna retrieved her coat, smiled a brave smile, and they left the bar together.

The entrance to the bar was set slightly off from the main street, albeit not more than about twenty yards away. They were halfway there, when they heard footsteps behind them. Both women turned as one, to see the man who had tried to pick them up in the bar behind them. Watching him stumble slightly, Eames realised he was drunk, _but not drunk enough to be no trouble_, her instincts warned her.

"You!" He yelled at Sienna. Eames could sense the other woman tensing very slightly, sliding her purse behind her so that it couldn't be grabbed.

"You were rude to me in there." He stabbed the air with a finger and glowered.

Sienna adopted an expression of friendly, disarming calm, and spoke in a neutral, clear tone. "I'm sorry if I offended you. We've both had a rough week, and we both just wanted a chance to…"

"I DON'T CARE!" The man yelled. "You're all the same these days, you think you can say whatever you like to men and get away with it!"

Suddenly, he lunged forward, managing to grab Sienna's wrist before she could pull back in time. Sienna's head instantly snapped up, and Eames saw her instinctively turn sideways on to the man, minimising the area of her body facing towards him, her knees flexing slightly to enable her to move quickly.

Sienna glowered at him angrily. "You have one chance. LET GO OF ME NOW!"

The man continued to grip her wrist, and his other hand began to reach out for her face. Quickly, Sienna pivoted forty-five degrees, clamped her free hand briefly over her attacker's, then viciously turned the arm that was in the grip of the man's hand, locking out his wrist with a nasty-sounding crack. He yelled and let go. Sienna jumped back swiftly.

Eames glanced around, but unfortunately Sienna's yell hadn't brought any Good Samaritans hustling to their aid, and the man was between them and the main street. She was just thinking that their best option was to retreat to the bar and ask the door staff to help them out, when the man made a sudden lunge for Sienna, swinging his fist at the side of her head.

Acting from instinct and years of training, Eames grabbed him and forced his arm up into a standard police hold. The rough surface under foot made her stumble, and the two of them pitched forward, the man's face impacting on a nearby wall with an unpleasant smack.

_Oh shit, I hope I haven't broken anything_, she thought with a sudden rush of fear.

"I'll have you for assault!" The man yelled at the top of his lungs. _Nothing broken in his face_, Eames thought with relief, but it was small comfort. "I'll call the police!"

"We _are_ the police." Sienna's voice was low and angry.

"Then I'll have you for police brutality. I'll say you attacked me…"

_Oh, SHIT_. Eames realised with a sudden wince that it would be his word against theirs, and as a police officer, she would be horribly vulnerable to the charge of excessive force…

"I don't think you will."

Sienna's voice was suddenly nasty. She stepped forward, facing their would-be attacker. Pinned as he was against the wall with Eames holding his arm trapped behind his back, he could only whimper as Sienna drove the knuckle of her thumb against the tender bone at his temple, twisting it slightly. When she was sure he was listening, she spoke in a low, angry, growl.

"You are going to walk out of this alley. You are not going to go to the police, because if you do, I guarantee your wife will find out that you like to hang out in bars and pick up strange women, and her divorce attorney will just _love_ to know that."

The man suddenly looked grey. Sienna left it a few seconds, then growled, "Do you understand?"

"Okay bitch_aaargh!_"

Sienna drove her knuckle in a bit harder. "Speak to me with respect. Do you understand?"

"Okay," he snarled.

"Then start walking."

He looked at them with loathing, but obeyed, walking with dragging steps in front of Eames as she frogmarched him to the main street, letting go only when they were within yelling distance of other people. He glared at them. They glared back, and he eventually turned and walked away a few paces, hailing a cab and getting in.

Eames looked at Sienna questioningly.

"I overheard him talking about the divorce when I went past him on my way to the ladies room." Sienna shrugged, and a shark-like grin briefly passed over her face, then dissolved into a frown. "Do you think we should report it?"

"I think you've given him the message loud and clear, and I don't want to risk it. He could say we attacked him and it would be our word against his, but I'll make sure the patrol officers in the area and the local bar staff know about him. They can keep an eye out in case he tries it again."

Sienna nodded. "Let's go eat."

An hour later, they had finished devouring the tuna casserole, and also half of a bottle of Pinot Grigio that Eames had found lurking in her fridge. _Probably give us both hangovers tomorrow, but what the hell_.

Sienna finished chewing her last forkful, and looked at her with a smile, the food having obviously cheered her up. "Thanks, Alex. I really needed tonight. It's so good just to have someone listen."

"You know what, though?" Eames gestured with her nearly-empty wineglass. "It's not me you need to talk to, it's Bobby."

"Yeah!" Sienna nodded enthusiastically, and waved her own wineglass precariously. "That's just it. It's like nobody is talking to anybody. I'm not talking to Bobby, _you_ weren't talking to Bobby – although I'm not blaming you, I think you made the right decision and you had no reason to believe he'd ever find out," she added hastily, then went on, "Jack wasn't talking to anyone, Drew wasn't talking to me…" She tailed off suddenly.

Their eyes met. Sienna's poker face was good enough that she didn't look openly guilty, but not _quite_ good enough to hide the "Oops!" that she was clearly thinking, at least to Eames' trained eyes.

"_Wasn't_ talking to you?"

Sienna took a deep breath. "Okay. Alex, please don't tell Bobby, but Drew and I have started to talk to each other again." She looked resolute. "I just thought, this is stupid. I need to have it out with him once and for all. Talk it out so that I haven't got all these thoughts going around in my head. So I called him and left a message, and he returned it a while back, and, well, we haven't talked about _it_ yet, but… we're talking. He's recovered well, apparently, he might even be able to get back to his full duties soon, anyway, it's a start."

"But you haven't told Bobby." Eames felt a nasty stirring of foreboding.

"No. The mood he's been in recently, I was worried it would just make things worse." She looked resolute again. "But I _will_ tell him, Alex. I will tell him. I'm going to wait for a weekend this month when we can be together for a while, maybe go out for dinner or for a walk, just do things together, and then I'm just going to get everything out in the open. You're quite right. I _should_ be talking to him."

Eames nodded, feeling a certain relief. "Sounds like a plan."

"Yeah."

"I promise I'll keep it a secret until you do."

Sienna suddenly smiled. "Well, maybe we could _trade_ secrets. Come on, Alex. You must have something to tell me." She grinned and waggled her eyebrows hilariously. "What's the _gossip_?"

"Oh?" Eames grinned. "I don't have any, Sienna. My life is just work, work, work at the moment. The most exciting thing I do right now is play with my nephew."

"Hmm?" Sienna grinned evilly. "Well, in that case, maybe you can help me clear up a mystery."

Eames made a non-committal _mmph_ noise. Sienna smiled. "You see, recently I called Tanya – not long to go now, she's really getting big – anyway, she said, if ever I caught you alone, if ever we were just having drinks together, I should say something to you and see what reaction I got…"

"And what was that?" Eames suddenly wished she hadn't taken the bait, as, with an expression of mock-innocence, Sienna replied sweetly, "Dinner plates."

Eames suddenly felt herself blush bright red with shock. Sienna burst out laughing, and met her expression of embarrassed annoyance with a good-natured smile.

"Oh come on, Alex. Spill!"

Eames chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Okay." She reached for the bottle. "But I'm gonna need another drink…"


	16. A Long Way Down

"_I was unconscious, half-asleep_

_The water is warm, til you discover how deep… _

_I wasn't jumping__, for me it was a fall,_

_It's a long way down to nothing at all."_

U2, "Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of". (Album "All That You Can't Leave Behind".)

**Author's note**: The police raid in Birmingham Drew is referring to here really happened, in September 2005.

Also, there was an error in the last chapter – the text at the start of the chapter should read "One cold December evening…" not "one cold January evening". Oops!

_Rooftop of the home of Andrew Davenport_

_London, England_

_November 2005 _

It's a bloody awful night. Cold, dark, dank; the sort of night that makes you wish you could replace your bloodstream with liquid Prozac to get you through until spring.

Damn, I miss the drugs. Officially I don't need them any more, though. Fucking hooray.

I find myself running through the exercises again, flexing my fingers, one-two-three-four-five, wrist, up and down, clenching my hand into a fist again and again, and force myself to stop. Don't need to do those any more, either.

I prop myself against the wall, sheltering from the rain, and stare out into the orange glow of London's night. From up here I can only see dots of light; streetlights, headlights, signs, windows, occasionally smearing into a streak of light for a road or a regular pattern of windows for the tower block over to the north, but mainly it's just one disjointed scatter of bright dots against a vast expanse of black. Normally I would be able to map them out onto my memory of the view from up here, but tonight it's just not working.

No stars. It's not that sort of night.

_Oh, go on, Drew, wallow in your own fu__cking misery, you might as well_, I think, but the sarcasm doesn't jolt me out of it. Wallowing in my own misery feels exactly like what I want to do, and it's not like anyone's going to be coming up to tell me I've been out too long and if I get a cold it will be my own stupid fault. Or, more realistically, if I don't get down there in five minutes I won't be getting a shag until tomorrow, and that's if I'm lucky…

_Fuck_, that hurts. Just thinking that hurts. Why? Why do I keep running over the past over and over again in my head? It's over. Finished. Look forwards and move on, back to work, back to being me. No looking back. Don't ever look back, it only hurts.

Yet part of me, a new part of me, thinks that if only I'd looked back a little more, maybe I wouldn't be here right now. Metaphorically here, I mean, although probably literally not here, either, here being a bloody cold rooftop with no-one I know anywhere around me.

Where did this all start? Who knows. I could pick any number of starting places and times. London, twenty years ago. Mine and Jack's old house, ten years ago. Army base on the US East Coast, over three years ago.

Another place and time drifts into my head, though, and I wonder if maybe that's my answer…

…It's about two and a half years ago, and I am trying to sit still in a van parked outside a brothel in South London, and failing miserably. Beside me, an old colleague of mine, Keith Henshaw, is in much the same state.

Our other colleague, Amelia Jenkins, is the exact opposite, frozen solid as if she'll crack if she moves. I'm hoping that this is her way of coping with frustration; if it's actually stage fright and she's started panicking then we're all in trouble. Amelia is new to the team, fresh out of MI5's training programme, and, as I have already informed her, this is where her training really begins, out in the field. Sitting in a white van in a grimy street in South London outside a brothel, waiting around for the girls in blue to do their bit. Welcome to the glamorous world of spying.

This raid is not my idea, although it's sufficiently brilliant that I wish it were.

One of many problems in tackling human trafficking is that it is, alas, standard practice among traffickers to break in new girls by raping them whilst wearing police uniforms, just to ensure that they don't get any ideas about seeking help from the police. Combine that with the facts that most of them come from countries where the police are not people you go to for help anyway, and that they're nearly all very young, don't speak English and are terrified of men, and you can see our problems in getting any usable testimony from them at all. (Not to mention the fact that they've been scared shitless and abused for longer than any human being should have to endure, and none of us wants to traumatise them further if we can help it.)

Recently, however, someone in Birmingham came up with a genius idea; if police_men_ are likely to be the problem, then use police_women_. They assembled a task force of female officers, set up the raid, and managed to rescue 19 women being used as sex slaves in a massage parlour. As is the case with all good ideas, everyone's jumping on the bandwagon, which is why myself, Keith and Amelia are reduced to sitting around watching and waiting whilst a team of about 25 female officers raid the brothel. Keith's here to monitor the CCTV footage that will be coming in during the raid. In the unlikely event that there are any of the actual traffickers in the building, we have no intention of letting them pull them "I'm just a customer" routine and slipping away from us.

Amelia and I are here for an entirely different reason… Damn, I hate sitting around waiting for someone else to do the work. No fun having your heart race and your bloodstream flood with adrenalin, and not have anywhere to put it.

Suddenly, we hear yelling outside, pounding feet, shouts of "Go, go, go!", and Keith's monitoring equipment lights up across the board. He's soon absorbed in it, mesmerised by the screen, whilst Amelia and I watch hungrily, anxiously, as the task force pours into the building. I go over the plans again in my head, visualising the teams of officers at each possible entrance and exit to the building, ensuring that none of the girls in there are spirited out by their kidnappers to be re-trafficked. Right on cue, I can hear yells and screams coming from within the brothel, as the task forces reaches the rooms where the girls are being kept. I amuse myself briefly picturing the faces of their customers…

Suddenly, Keith whispers urgently: "Drew, Amelia, over here." We hustle across and follow where he's pointing to a face on the screen, freeze-framed from the CCTV footage.

A young girl, maybe seventeen at the most. Pale, blonde, a bruise on her cheek partially concealed by badly-done make-up. Keith points to where his software is showing a match between the frightened face of the girl now being helped into a waiting police minibus (we decided against vans to transport the trafficked women in, too frightening) and the image from our files.

Ignoring Amelia and Keith, I study her face for a full five seconds, comparing it to the image I have in my own head, and eventually nod. I trust the software, but there's no way I'm relying on a computer to do my job.

"That's her, yes." I mutter a hasty "Thanks," and Amelia and I hasten out of the van and into a waiting police car, leaving Keith behind to finish his job.

The ride to the police station is short, but tense. Amelia's earlier frozenness seems to have changed; she's practically vibrating with tension. I watch with interest, but say nothing. You can't break MI5 agents in on easy jobs, because none of our jobs are easy. Amelia speaks Lithuanian and possesses two X chromosomes, hence the fact that she's here to do the questioning. I'm here to tell her what questions to ask.

The adrenalin rush has damped down a little, but only just. I can feel it. In this building, if I can ask the right questions, is the proof that Detective Inspector John Durham is working with the trafficking gangs. I get the proof, I get the authorisation to go ahead with the sting. I've already got Sienna primed to come over here. If I can provide Anne Langford with solid intelligence that it's worth our while to go ahead with the sting, she'll start working on Interpol to make it nice and easy for Ms Tovitz to transfer across to the UK.

Yet again, I wonder if I can get away with using one of our own agents to try to catch Durham, and decide reluctantly that no, I probably can't. We have one shot at this, and that means using someone who he can't possibly suspect for working for us. Sienna's been in the States for the past year, and if Durham tries to check out her background, he'll find that she's exactly as she appears; an Interpol Intelligence Analyst with specialities in working to tackle Russian and Eastern European organised crime gangs.

The girl we're interested in right now – Katya – is known to have been working at a brothel run by the gang that our intelligence suggests Durham's working with. One of our agents tailed Durham to the brothel, but that on its own is not enough; we want proof that Durham is known to the gang members.

We follow the officers along the corridors to a small room. This station was chosen because it has special facilities for dealing with raped women, and the room doesn't look like your standard police interview room. It's filled with pastel colours, soft furnishings, even a bland picture of some tulips on the wall. It does, however, have a cleverly-disguised one-way glass panel set into one of the walls, through which I can see Katya, huddled in a chair in a blanket, a cup of something hot sitting untouched in front of her. I wonder abstractly if her ribs are damaged; she looks to be in pain from the way she's holding herself. Then Amelia pads quietly into the room, and I force myself to stay relaxed, even though we're so _close_ I can nearly touch it. Beside me, another MI5 officer slides into the room. We've not met before, but he's from the translation and interpreting team, here to translate the conversation live so that I know what questions we need to ask.

Amelia settles herself in the chair opposite the blanket-clad girl, and starts going through the pleasantries, trying to win Katya's trust. Amelia's pretty good for a rookie – we sent her off to work with the Project Sapphire officers who work with rape victims to brush up her questioning techniques - but I can see the tension in her shoulders, and hope that Katya isn't perceptive enough to pick it up. I keep silent and observe, as she gradually leads the conversation round to Durham…

"Before you were here, you were being held somewhere else, weren't you?"

"Yes…" Katya barely manages to stammer out the word, before starting to tremble, the beginnings of sobbing on her face. Amelia quickly soothes her, reassures her, tells her that no-one will hurt her again, she'll never have to go back, we just need her to answer a few questions so that we can make sure that the men who hurt her can never hurt anyone else. Katya nods, quickly, trying to be brave, and I'm impressed at her depth of spirit, if she's still able to do that after what she's been through.

"Do you recognise this place?" Amelia pushes a photograph of the inside of the brothel in question across the table. We found it abandoned a week ago, the gang having suspected we were on to them and moved on to the location we eventually raided.

Katya nods, whimpering slightly and clutching the blanket. Amelia's face is tense, and I'm silently annoyed; she's making the girl's distress worse, and if we don't get this information tonight, we may never be able to question Katya after she disappears into the system and they start trying to decide whether to deport her or grant her leave to remain.

I could have her arrested, of course, prostitution being illegal in this country, and then I'd know just where to find her… but even I would rather not do that if I can possibly avoid it. Need to resist the temptation to go soft, I think sharply, and remind myself that there are a _lot_ of Katyas out there. Nailing John Durham and using him to bring down the gang trafficking these women into the country will be a major strike for our side and prevent a lot of suffering, and if it means that we have to question Katya pretty hard, so be it. Better one Katya being upset now than a _lot_ of Katyas being trafficked over here and repeatedly raped.

Amelia explains gently that we need to know something about the men in question. Katya folds in further on herself, but doesn't drop her head, and yet again I'm impressed. Then Amelia goes for broke, and I resist the urge to cross my fingers as she pushes a picture of John Durham in civilian clothes across the table, and asks Katya if she recognises the man in the picture.

Immediate reaction: Katya lets out a cry of distress, whimpering and pointing at the picture. She starts babbling fast in Lithuanian – I have no idea what she's saying, but I sense that for her this is some form of catharsis – and the officer besides me listens intently, waiting for a break in the monologue to fill me in. It comes when Katya reaches the end of her words and finally starts sobbing, and Amelia awkwardly tries to comfort her. She shoots me a look of frustration over the top of Katya's head. I ignore it completely and focus on what the translator is telling me; yes, Katya recognises the man, she saw him talking to the men who were keeping her captive, they used her for entertainment and said that if she ever told anyone she'd be killed and dumped in the river, and a photo of her body sent home to her family.

"What does she mean by 'entertainment'?" I ask.

The translator gives me a tired look. "Do you really need to ask?" He takes a breath and goes on. "They raped her in front of him, two of them, every way you can think of. She says they were laughing."

I think for a few seconds, then speak to Amelia. The translator looks a little startled to see me speaking into thin air, but shrugs his shoulders and accepts it. (It's amazing what they can do with technology. Both myself and Amelia have tiny chips to record and transmit our voices under the skin just below the hinge of the jaw. Combine this with chips on our cranial nerves, and we can speak and listen over a surprisingly large distance without needing any extra equipment.)

"Amelia, ask her if they were saying anything to him."

Amelia can't speak to me without Katya hearing, but her face eloquently conveys the message, _Like what?_

"Did they call him by a name, did they say anything to him?"

She spends a minute or so soothing Katya some more, then takes a deep breath and asks. Katya's face immediately crumples, and I resist the urge to kick the wall in frustration, but then the girl stammers out a few words, high-pitched and barely recognisable.

"She says that they called him… they called him "bitch", in Russian." The translator raises an eyebrow, apparently familiar with the fact that among Russian criminal gangs, "bitch" means much the same as "snitch" or "grass" over here. Both of us try not to think about how Katya learned the Russian for "bitch". "They said he had to watch, it was his… welcoming party." He frowns. "I think that's right."

I nod, and try not to smile. Perfect. This fits exactly with what I was expecting; Katya must have been part of Durham's initiation into the gang. Make the new guy watch what they do to the women, and if he flinches, he's out. Terminally out.

"Amelia, ask if they were wearing police uniforms."

She shoots me a _the FUCK?_ look, and I make a mental note that we need to have words about this afterwards. She does, however, ask the question, and Katya nods miserably. Fits with the initiation. They were making it clear to Durham; this is what we think of the police, and you'd better get used to it.

"One more question. Ask her if the man in the picture joined in."

Amelia looks at the sobbing woman in front of her, face buried in her hands, then back at me. She stays silent.

I sigh, then speak very clearly and slowly. "Amelia, ask the damn question."

She looks at me with a sceptical expression.

"Amelia, ask the fucking question. Or do I have to come in there and do it for you?"

This works, and Amelia finally asks Katya if Durham joined in. Katya stammers out a few words, and then collapses completely. I turn to the translator as Amelia ineffectually tries to stem the tide of sobbing.

"No, he didn't join in," the translator confirms, and I feel a certain relief. I want to nail Durham – _fuck_, do I want to nail Durham – but I dislike the idea of throwing Sienna at him if he's actually a rapist. It's a pretty simple, if risky, plan. Once she gets over here, I'll let Sienna know in advance that we need her to get close to Durham. I've sounded her out – in very vague, general terms – about working undercover, and she's so eager to prove herself she'll jump at the chance.

Makes me wonder; the woman I first met back on the operation near the Army base wasn't quite so… ambitious? Hungry? Desperate? Shacking up with Goren doesn't seem to have done much for her self-esteem, which I'm guessing is partly why she's so keen to meet me whenever she gets the chance. Anyway, the two of them, Sienna and Durham, can meet through their work easily enough, Sienna can make a play for him and get in there, I'll get the proof I need to get Durham to turn double agent and work for us, she'll get major kudos among the top brass for being involved in a successful operation, everyone's happy…

…Back on the rooftop, in the present, I wince. Didn't work out like that. Didn't work out like that _at all_.

What was I supposed to do? I couldn't control the fact that the Metropolitan Police demanded that their new Interpol Liaison Officer be present at a meeting of the senior officers based where Sienna would be working. Couldn't control the fact that they met before I could warn Sienna…

_Oh fucking hell, Drew, stop lying to yourself_, I think. I could have warned Sienna anytime I felt like it. Instead, I watched as she fell for Durham, and practically hugged myself, thinking that I'd just wait for the right moment, and she'd turn against him in a heartbeat.

I did not warn Sienna, because, despite what I told Langford, despite the shape of the original plan, I had my doubts about letting someone as young and inexperienced (and, let's face it, fundamentally honest in a way that I'm not) as Sienna was back then do undercover work. I was half-certain she'd give herself away before she could get close to Durham, win his trust… so I didn't tell her until she was in. Well and truly in. And then I told her, and just as I'd expected, she was furiously hurt, and humiliated, and became utterly, utterly determined to get the man who'd deceived her.

Just as determined as I was.

I could say that I never intended it would get to the point where she'd get shot, either… but who would I be kidding?

I think back, again, to that night at the police station. Amelia, furious, yelling at me, "You think I joined the service to do this?"

"To do what? Gather information? Gather vital evidence?" I fix Amelia with my best glower. "I really hope you did join to do that, because, guess what, _that's your job_."

"You won't let me go out in the field. You won't let me work undercover. Instead, you just pack me off to work with the other women…"

"Oh, is _that_ what this is about? Face it, Amelia, you _are_ a woman. Sorry, but no amount of effort on mine or anyone else's part can change the fact that criminal gangs are not known for their embrace of equal opportunities." I smile a little, because I do have some sympathy for her. I was just like this myself when I joined the service, and I _could_ work undercover. "I can't send you out in the field, because in this line of work there are just not the opportunities for females to do that. You did good work tonight."

"Yeah, I bullied a rape victim. Hurray for me."

I sigh, and suddenly feel very tired. "Amelia, we needed that information and we needed it now. I don't like doing what we just had to do, no-one does, but it's our job and that's all there is to it."

She shakes her head, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder, and mutters, "I need a drink." I watch her go idly, and turn from her to rewatch some of Keith's footage of the raid. I see the women being led past us into the bus, dazed, confused, whimpering in pain. I watch as one of them stumbles along, supported by two officers. As she passes the camera, a thin trickle of blood runs down her leg.

I feel the rage rising, and take a deep breath, count to three, and let it out. Now is not the time to go off on one, but…

I have met women who have been raped ten times in one day, all by different men. That was their working day, and they worked seven days a week, 365 days a year.

I once met one who had been raped _eighty_ times in one day. Christmas Day, if you can believe that.

Ican't imagine that. _I_ can't imagine it.

There are times, and I know I'm not the only person in this line of work who feels this way, when I would like to take the reports that I have to read every day, along with the pictures, and run out into the street and show them to every passer-by in the street and yell into their complacent faces, _this is happening RIGHT NOW, to innocent people in this city, women young enough to be your kids, your grandkids, your sister, your best friend. Why the hell aren't you out there? You should be BESIEGING the House of Commons, demanding justice, demanding that this stops on British soil RIGHT NOW. _

I'd like to do that, but I already know the answers I'd get.

"_Because I don't want to think about it". "Because I'd rather pretend it doesn't." "Because I like my safe little world." "Because I like fucking young girls for the price of a burger and a few pints, and if I think about what it's like for them, it spoils the fun." "Because I can write letters to my MP, and send petitions to Parliament, but what else am I supposed to do?" "Because that's YOUR job." _

It is my job. It's my job, and it should be Durham's job, but he's helping the bastards.

I force the rage down, put it in a box inside my head, so that I'm cold, rational. Focussed.

I picture Durham's face, and make a silent promise. _You are going down, _I think_. You will go down, and you'll know it was me who did it, and then I'll find Katya, and I'll tell her that the bastard corrupt copper who watched her being raped will spend the rest of his life behind bars. _

And Sienna holds the key to that.

…Back in the present again. It's cold, and the wind has started up.

It won't be much warmer inside. I never remember to turn the heating on. I never used to be here that often.

How exactly did I manage to fuck up this badly?

I shake my head in bewilderment. I should be happy. I've got my job back. I start back on restricted duties next week. More importantly, my hand works fine. Maybe not absolutely 100, but I'm not left-handed, thankfully. The function I've got back is more than sufficient for me to do my job. That's what I've told them, and that's how it is. Thank you, Jonathan House.

On second thoughts, _don't_.

Ah, the hell with it… What's wrong with me? Why am I questioning myself like this?

Who am I, and do I even know that any more? Am I Andrew Davenport, MI5 agent? Drew, Tanya's friend? Jack's friend? _Sienna's_ friend?

I force myself not to back away. Not to go back downstairs and bury myself in a bottle of whisky until it all goes away…

Face your past, Drew, I think.

Maybe if I just face up to the past, it will all become clearer.

And I remember another conversation on the roof. Longer ago, this one, well over three years ago, the summer before I met Sienna. Not my roof, either; Jack and Tanya's. Just Jack and I, this time…

"So what; you expect me to apologise?" I shrug.

Jack stares at me with a mixture of frustration and anger. I get the anger but not the frustration; what exactly was he expecting from me? "I'm sorry I did my job"? No chance.

"No. Yes. Actually, yes."

"I'm not going to."

We stare at each other in anger. I try not to think about how appealing Jack looks angry. I'm surprised Tanya doesn't pick fights with him on a regular basis just to see that. (Mind you, at this point I was still surprised at the concept of them _dating_. They managed to keep _that_ quiet.)

I'm also surprised he didn't figure out sooner that I expected him to try breaking in to my flat, all those years ago. Figured he'd guessed and decided to keep quiet since the arrangement was working out well for both of us, and, after all, he _did_ break into my flat. (Albeit only after I spent several weeks hinting to him that _real_ journalists have to be prepared to bend the rules to get to the truth, and he shouldn't be afraid to be inquisitive… and Jack always _was_ curious about what I really did for a living.)

"Drew, you tricked me, and you blackmailed me, and for the past seven years, you've been pretending to be my friend."

"I _am_ your friend."

"No. No, you're not. Friends don't do this sort of thing."

If he doesn't get it, I'm not sure why I'm bothering to explain, but I try again. "Jack, _I_ have to do that sort of thing. You know that." I shrug again. "It's not like it's any different to anything else I've done in the past, or in the present, or in the last week or so if I'm being honest, and I don't notice you giving me the kicked-puppy eyes every time you see me. Or does it only count if I'm doing it to _you_, not to other people?"

I expect him to back down, but he glowers back. "Yes, it does. You don't do that to your friends."

"I have to."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do! We needed a journalist on the inside, you were perfect, I was asked to make sure you were on-side, end of story."

""Make sure I was on-side"." Jack's expression approaches a sneer, something I've never seen him attempt before. "Nice euphemism for blackmail."

I actually laugh. "Oh, yeah, because sneaking into your friend's flat and trying to hack their computer is totally innocent. Come off it. You wanted to play at being a journalist, you tried and you got caught. You're lucky it was me and not someone who really would have followed through on that; you could have gone to prison."

"You _set_ _that_ _up_!"

"Maybe, but you didn't need to go along with it. You could have strolled away, Jack, but face it; you wanted to know who I was. You wanted to get in there."

"And if I had walked away, how many other traps would you have set?" Jack sighs, and I suddenly think, _he sounds old_. Well, not old as such. Older. I look at him and suddenly I don't see an ex-student wanting to play at being a journalist, I see a thirty-something year old man with a fiancée and a career. Weird. When did that happen?

He turns round, and looks me straight in the eyes. An involuntary memory of times when those eyes used to look into mine like that, like Jack could look all the way through me and see everything, flits through my head, but I push it away; those times are over. "Why didn't you just ask me?"

I nearly laugh again, but somehow I know that's not the right response. "Because Five wouldn't have bought that. Even if you'd agreed, they'd have had no reason to trust you."

"And someone being blackmailed _is_ trustworthy."

"Sure they are. No better guarantee that someone will do what you want and keep their mouths shut about it, than if they know and you know that all it would take is a few well-chosen words, and their life comes tumbling down round their ears." I shake my head. "You can't trust people who do things based on principle, Jackie. Only time you can trust anyone is when you know they don't have a choice but to do what you want."

"_Don't call me that_." Jack swallows hard, and looks away. "You could have trusted _me_."

"Well, back then you _did_ make a habit of saying things you didn't mean."

Jack suddenly wheels round and yells, startling me so much I jump. "How many times? How many times do I have to apologise?"

"I don't know; how sorry are you?"

Jack bites out every word. "We were kids. I was experimenting. I have said I am sorry, and I _am_ sorry, but for God's sake, get over it."

"You know, for most people, experimenting means a few one-night stands. It doesn't mean stringing someone along for half a year, living off their income, whilst you piss about pretending to be a rock star and close your eyes every time the two of you…"

"I couldn't find the right way to say it and I didn't want to hurt you. I wish I hadn't bothered. By the way, _for most_ _people_, breaking up doesn't involve setting the other person up, then blackmailing them whilst pretending to be their best friend."

We glare at each other, then I take a deep breath and try to figure the best way out of this. "Jack… we don't need to do this." He snorts derisively. "Look, you're angry about this, and maybe you're right, maybe I should have told you, but Five wanted you working for us, one way or the other. Better that it was me who brought you in than someone else."

"Oh, you were doing this for _me_."

"Well, you haven't done badly from it, have you? You're a great journalist. We provide you with the information, you provide us with the odd piece of news here or there, we can get our jobs done, you win awards, everyone's happy."

Jack smiles wryly, and I can tell he's weakening. One thing about Jack; he always wants to believe the best about people. Once you know that, you know everything about him, including the fact that he secretly hates arguing with anyone. In fact, I'm amazed he's kept the argument going this long. Perhaps some of Tanya's backbone is transferring itself to him by osmosis.

I press the advantage. "We're friends. You and me and Tanya. Why spoil that over this? We've got a great thing going here; maybe it didn't begin under the best of circumstances, but why wreck it now? Let's just forget this ever happened." I hold out my hands. "Friends?"

Jack sighs, then reaches out and grips my hands with his. "Okay."

And as I leave the roof, I can just hear him saying: "You still should have given me a choice," but I pretend not to hear.

Back in the present, I really wish I'd listened. Maybe if I had, some of this whole goddamn mess could have been prevented.

Because I realise now, it's not the fact that I brought SiSi over here that's the bad thing. Given the chance, I'd do it again. Durham had to be stopped, and that was the best way to do it.

It's not so much the fact that I let her fall for Durham. I'd like to excuse myself from that one by saying that I didn't really understand what I was letting her in for, that back then, I didn't get that any kind of relationship could be more than a convenience, but who would I be kidding?

I chuckle softly to myself. It's a nicely bitter irony; all these years, I've pretended to be hurt by Jack because of what he did to me, whilst secretly thinking he was stupid for buying the act, for believing that it meant more to me than any of the innumerable quick shags who have passed through my life, that I was _hurt_. And it wasn't even an act, and I didn't know.

Besides, if you're as smart as I am, you don't get to say "I didn't know" or "I didn't understand". I'm supposed to bloody well understand things. There's no room in my job description for "I got it wrong".

The bad thing is that, even though there's a good chance SiSi would have – well, not _approved_ of it, but probably, maybe, _understood_ why I did what I had to do – I didn't tell her. Didn't tell her during, didn't tell her afterwards, didn't tell her at Glastonbury, didn't tell her even when I could see she was going a bit off the rails, and did I do anything about _that_? No, I was too wrapped up with Mike. By the time I'd made my mind up, it was already far too late.

I still remember that night, that night I realised that, if I wanted to save all those lives, I had to go off the grid, risk my career, run my own, unauthorised, operation to prove that the stadium was under threat.

To do that, I _needed_ Goren, and Eames, and Sienna, and Jack, and Tanya. I couldn't tell them anything. Having them all pissed off at me for screwing over Sienna could have been disastrous.

When you boil it right down… I didn't trust Sienna to make the right judgement, so I made it for her, and then I pretended to be her friend.

Why did I do that? Why did I care what any of them think?

And another memory from the past rolls over me, and I barely have the energy to whisper "no". I'm so tired.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied."

He looks old, I think. My father looks old. It's a shock, but after nearly three years away, perhaps it was inevitable we would look different to each other when we saw each other again.

And yes, actually, I am satisfied. I have a pretty fair idea of what a disabled kiddie-raper can expect in prison, and I would be lying if I said that the thought didn't fill me with a deep and lasting satisfaction.

"Your own uncle, Andy. How could you do it?"

"Very easily, Dad."

And it was easy. After a year or so on foot patrol around the Kings Cross area, I knew pretty much all the places where flesh is for sale, and I was sick to my back teeth of doing a job where I could arrest the rent boys and trafficked prostitutes for soliciting, but never the bastards pimping them out, especially not when I could see what was going on.

Worst of all were the senior officers. Not all of them, not any more, not in the modern force. But there were always a few who looked the other way. Who didn't mind the odd freebie, in return for a hint or two about when it would be a good time to clear out of a particular area, so that when we raided, we never found the actual pimps or gangmasters, just a few battered and bruised girls and maybe the odd pathetic john.

So that when a young Anne Langford approached me when I was sitting on my own in a pub in Soho, wondering gloomily whether to drown the memories of the week in alcohol, or a quick pick-up in one of the local gay bars, or both, and suggested that perhaps I'd like to work for the people who didn't have to worry about the rules, I practically bit her hand off.

Half a year later, and suddenly quite a few of those officers were facing trial. It was a frightening time. I knew only too well what they'd do to me if they'd suspected that I was working for MI5, secretly gathering intelligence on who was corrupt, who should be arrested and who we could usefully turn to our side (because I already considered myself part of Five by then)… but they didn't suspect. Five were thrilled; offered to pay for me to go to university in return for my returning to work for them as soon as I finished the course. I accepted with great speed.

And as for my uncle, well, the thing about underage rent boys is that they do it for the money. It didn't take a great deal of MI5's money to persuade my uncle's favourite to give him a call, offer him something very special if he would just come over right away... Specifically, fifteen years for rape of a minor in HMP Pentonville after he was caught in the raids we were running on some of the brothels during clean-up part of the whole operation. The look on his face when he saw three of my fellow officers smashing the door down is one of those memories that I'll treasure for the rest of my life.

I couldn't arrest him myself – arresting family members gives the defence something to play with – but that was a very, very satisfying experience, even if the new knowledge that I wasn't the only one he was doing that to leaves me with a deep and burning rage. Still, at least the kid in question is being looked after by the authorities. With any luck they might even find him a foster family, though I doubt it. He'll probably spend his time til he's eighteen in care, but at least he'll be off the streets and someone will feed him regularly.

My father glares at me. It leaves me unmoved. "Was it you?"

"I'm sorry?"

He turns away from me, and begins muttering. I find myself thinking that he looks tired, but then I hear what he's saying and my blood turns to ice.

"I should have known sending you there was a mistake. That he'd go back to his old habits…"

"What?"

He turns to me, looking confused and tired. "He was supposed to show you the right way, Andy. He overcame his bad habits and got married. I wanted him to show you how to do that." He frowns at me. "Was it you who tempted him?"

"You knew." I say it very quietly, but I can feel the rage building.

When I left home, I was a small, skinny, sixteen-year-old kid. During my time with my uncle, I grew nearly half a foot in a late growth spurt. It's almost like on one level my body knew it had to turn itself into an adult quickly to survive. Three years later, including the half-year of basic training the police put me through, plus all the training I did with Tanya, and I was not, physically or mentally, the same person.

"You knew what he would do to me, and you sent me there anyway."

"I thought he would understand your problems, Andy, since the two of you suffer from the same…"

"We're nothing like each other." I step forward and glower straight into his eyes. "Get that through your head, Dad. We are _nothing _like each other."

"Andy… what you do is wrong."

I am so angry I can barely speak. "He raped me, and you're saying we're the same?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Andy. He can't have raped you. Only women can be raped. What the two of you did…"

I don't hear the rest of that sentence, because that was when I hit him. Right cross straight to the jaw, and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

I stare down at him, writhing on the floor and looking at me – at his son – in fear, and part of me is horrified.

But a bigger part of me feels only triumph. I'm never again going to have to put up with people pushing me around, or calling me a poof, or having to laugh at jokes in the police canteen about queers taking it up the arse. Five will see to it that _everyone_ who might threaten me will look at me that way.

At least they're honest about the fact they don't give a shit for me personally. Among Anne Langford's first words to me were: "I know what your uncle did to you; do you want revenge?" And I was in. I was theirs, and if they want to use me, then so be it. I can live with that, so long as they let me do things the way I want to.

I lean over, and spit: "I am _nothing_ like my uncle, and I'm nothing like _you_. As of now, you don't have a son, and I don't have a father. I hope you've enjoyed this little chat, because you and I aren't ever going to see each other again."

"Don't be ridiculous, Andy." He wipes his mouth, and sneers: "How exactly are you going to manage for money? They won't still let you work as a policeman."

I grin. "Don't worry about that, Dad, I've got another job and I'm not telling you where."

We glare at each other for another minute, then I turn to go, then pause. "Oh, one other thing. _My name's not Andy_."

And I leave without looking back.

The past is the past.

And again, the words float back into my head.

"_Where the hell do you get off telling Tanya she couldn't visit me?" _

"_What!" Mike's face, angry and anguished. "They hurt you! I saw what you were like when you got back. I wasn't going to let that happen again, and if I could have kept Jack McAllister away from you too, I would! They weren't your friends, Drew, and I wasn't going to let them hurt you!"_

"_The fuck you weren't!" I roar, and Mike flinches. "That was not your decision to make!"_

_Mike holds up his hand. "This?" He points to the ring. "This means something. To me if not to you!"_

_And I felt like I'd been slapped. _

_Guilt is not an emotion I am familiar with in any way, shape or form, so it hit me doubly hard. _

"_Just what does that mean?" I snarl. _

"_You tell me. Or should I go and ask Jonathan House?" _

_I can only assume that Mike saw something in my face. That shouldn't happen. No-one should be able to see things I don't want them to. He glowers at me. I glower back. _

"_Well, maybe if I'd had more visitors, I wouldn't have been so fucking bored out of my mind…" I suddenly realise that there is no good way for that sentence to end, and let it trail off. _

"_What, that you ended up fucking someone else?"_

_I whirl round, and Mike actually flinches. _

_Oh, _shit. _This is going so wrong. I reach out a hand to his face, and he flinches back, and looks afraid. No. That's not how this goes. Mike doesn't look at me like that. _

"_Mike…" I plead softly. _

"_What?"_

_I don't know what to say. "I risked everything for you. I would have lost my job, I would have been kicked out… they nearly did kick me out… but I did it for you." _

"_I know." His voice is anguished, and he's still backing away. _

"_I saved your life."_

_And then he says it. "I know. I know. But, Drew…" _

_And I wait for the hammer to fall…_

"… _I can't stay out of gratitude." _

"Don't go."

"_We both need space."_

_And he leaves._

Fuck it, I'm not going to cry.

Can't remember the last time I cried, and sure as fuck I am not starting now.

How did I fuck up my life this badly? I used to have everything. Everything I ever wanted.

And then it occurs to me that, about two years ago, Sienna Tovitz was lying in bed in St Vincent's hospital, with a major injury from a stray bullet, the love of her life gone, and no family around her.

I don't believe in the God of my father. A God who would write the Book of Leviticus deserves to be nailed up and _left_, in my opinion. But right now, it's really hard not to think that there's some kind of cosmic justice, some sort of brutal karma at loose in the world right now, and suddenly I laugh and laugh, until my face hurts, and I'm still laughing, because, really, what else have I got left?

I rub my face with my hands, and suddenly I realise something. I can hear a phone ringing.

My phone. My mobile. My personal mobile. Very few people have this number, and I can't think of one of them who would want to ring me right now…

Curious, eager for distraction, I pull it out of my pocket, and the name displayed is so unexpected I just stand there in the rain and stare at the phone until it stops ringing and goes to voicemail.

I don't know what I feel.

I stare again at the phone in disbelief, and maybe, just maybe, a little hope.

_SiSi? _


	17. Through the Storm

Being smart made it worse.

He finished his drink, glanced across at the bar, and decided it was too busy. He couldn't face trying to shoulder his way through the crowd. Someone his size could do that, no problem, but not without being noticed, and he disliked the idea of having everyone staring at him, looking at the big drunken man in a suit, wondering what his problem was.

They would be wrong. He didn't really have any problems. Rationally, he knew that.

Being smart made it worse, because you could see just how stupid you were being, but it didn't stop you being that way.

Being smart didn't change your feelings, it just let you see how stupid they were, how irrational. Made you feel worse.

Beside him, he sensed Mike Logan's unspoken relief that he, Goren, had not gone off to buy another drink, and that made him pause for thought; was Logan relieved because he felt that he would have had to intervene, persuade a drunken Bobby Goren that he'd had enough? _Perhaps he's just relieved he won't have to carry me home_. He was sure he could still walk, and the smart, observant part of his brain that was still working muttered _damnit, Goren, if you're even having to _ask_ that question, you should stop now._

The less smart part was shouting more loudly, _I deserve it. It's been a long day. It's been a long week. How could she do that?_

Oh, he knew he was being stupid. His feelings of hurt, of anger, they were all irrational. It had been five years ago and she had withdrawn the letter. She had cried. She had apologised, and he had maturely accepted the apology, brushing off the incident with a glib reply about his being an acquired taste.

He had no right to be angry. He asked her to put up with him, his peculiarities, his introvertedness. He expected her to drive him, to defend him, to collar the suspects, to play her part in the carefully-crafted scenarios he created to catch the perps, and never, ever to complain. Being smart, he knew that theirs was a delicately-balanced partnership, that all she had to do was say something and he would do things differently, that each of them consented to the terms of their partnership every day. That he was very, very lucky to have her.

But part of him raged at her. Part of him wanted to yell "How could you!" to her face, accuse her of betraying him. Part of him wanted to show how much that hurt, how much she had hurt him.

He was smart enough to know that was stupid. Human, but stupid.

And so, the Friday after the case concluded, when the dust had settled, he waited for her to leave work before him, then suggested to Mike Logan that they hit one of the local bars to unwind. Logan agreed readily. He was almost tempted to wonder if he and Eames had been discussing the situation, if Eames had primed Logan to say yes if Goren suggested anything like this. _Or Sienna_. Logan and Sienna got on well. Too well; Sienna always smiled far too readily at Logan's brand of obvious charm. What was this thing she had for guys who acted like that?

The smart part of his brain muttered quickly _Don't go there. It's the past. Forget it._

The stupid part replied _She called him. She called him and didn't tell me. _

_They were friends for two years and he was seriously injured. One of the reasons you love her so much is that huge, forgiving, loving, heart of hers. She didn't tell you because she knew you wouldn't like it, and she doesn't have to justify what she does to you. Would you want her to stifle her feelings, just to make you happy?_

The stupid part of him muttered something about how she _should_ be trying to make him happy. She had left him, after all, not the other way around. Damnit, he wanted another drink.

He looked across at the bar, and was interrupted by Logan saying pointedly, "Goren, I'm gonna head for home. I got things to do tomorrow." He left the unspoken _You really wanna sit here in a bar on your own drinking and feeling sorry for yourself?_ off of the end of the sentence, but Goren could hear it there, hanging in the silence. Grumpily, he got up and they left the bar, Logan peeling off in the direction of a nearby cab, whilst Goren decided to walk.

He walked quickly, through the streets, realising as he did that he was walking too quickly, the rapid stumble of the drunk anxious to get home, but unable to stop himself from doing it. Arriving at their apartment, he fumbled a little with the key, then shoved open the door and kicked it shut behind him.

From inside the apartment, he heard Sienna's voice: "Hi, Bobby. Long day? How was your mom?"

She knew he and Logan had gone for a few drinks, so wasn't angry. As he came into the room, he saw that she'd been drinking herself. A large wine glass stood nearly empty beside a half-empty wine bottle on the table beside the couch, where she was curled up with a book and a rug keeping her warm.

He smiled at her, then knelt down beside her. She carefully bookmarked the page, then allowed him to kiss her, nuzzling into his arms. For a minute, the day seemed to be getting better, but as the kiss deepened and his hands strayed southwards towards the softer parts of her body, she tensed and gently detached herself.

"Sorry… I don't really want to tonight." She smiled apologetically, but firmly.

"Sienna…" He murmured gently into her ear, crooning her name softly as he stroked her side. She relaxed a little, but her expression didn't change.

"Bobby, you know I don't like to when I'm drunk and tired. I want to be at my best for you. I promise you, tomorrow morning I'm all yours, for as long as you like, however you like."

"Huh. Okay, then." He pulled away, a trifle roughly, and knew without needing to look that her expression would be slightly guilty, but resolute, and a little angry at him for not being more gracious about it.

The smart part of his mind knew that he had no right to demand that she stay sober for his benefit, that she was as entitled as he was to a few drinks at the end of a long day, but it was beginning to be drowned out by the sense of self-righteousness mixed with self-pity. Did every female he encountered have to make him suffer?

Now_ you're being self-pitying_.

_After what they've all done to me, I'm entitled. First my mom, then Nicole, then Sienna, then Nelda, and now Alex_.

_Only two of those five should even be in that list, and you emerged victorious over both of them. This is not a good line of thought. _

_The hell with that! I don't deserve this! _

Rationally, he knew that the alcohol in his bloodstream was still being absorbed, that he was getting drunker and his thinking more clouded, and that he should go drink a pint of water and sleep it off, ready to wake up with Sienna the following morning, but the anger wasn't subsiding. Sienna was looking at him carefully now. That was another thing. Before, she had always been emotional when they disagreed, out of control. Now, she regarded him with a kind of icy aloofness, appearing almost patronising. He did not like it at all.

_You're exaggerating. You're seeing things that aren't there._

_No I'm not! I used to be in charge around here!_

The sheer childishness of that last thought shook him out of the train of thought he was on, and forced him to calm down a little. He knew that to criticise Sienna for sometimes coming across as aloof, even bossy, was about as dumb as criticising James Deakins for thinking he could tell Goren what to do. That was his _job_, and it was Sienna's job to take charge of situations where she frequently had cops, agents and assorted other law-enforcement personnel from several entirely different organisations on the same team with different agendas. She had to be dominant with them right from the start, managing the difficult act of getting them to follow her lead, but without alienating them. A certain aloofness, even superiority, had to enter into that, and she found it hard to slip out of that persona and into her normal self sometimes, just like he did. If he had a problem with that, it was his problem, not hers.

"Huh. Sorry."

She smiled softly. "It's okay. Long day for both of us, I guess."

"Yeah."

"How's Alex?"

The question – so ordinary, yet at the same time spoken with more than a hint of trepidation – threw him. For a second, he simply didn't want to answer.

"It's okay to be angry, you know." Perversely, Sienna's concern just made him more annoyed. Why couldn't she leave him be? Leave it be?

"Like you are with Davenport?" _Not smart, not smart, _the thinking part of his brain chided him, but the drunken, angry part watched eagerly to see her response.

Sienna's face suddenly went blank, her feelings hidden behind a professional mask of calm self-control as she tried to work out the best answer. Suddenly he was angry with that, wanting to provoke her into showing some feelings, prove to him he wasn't the only one losing control.

"Honestly? Yes, in some ways, I'm still very angry with Drew, pretty much every time I look at my scars. But you know, Bobby, he's not really a bad guy, any more than you or I, he just works in a field where he has to make decisions where sometimes there are no good options. I'm not happy about him doing what he did to me, but I understand why he did it."

Her reasonableness enraged him, and he could barely hear the near-silent voice murmuring that she had had months to come to terms with what Davenport had done to her, and he had had mere days to come to terms with Eames' betrayal (no_ not betrayal, she was just reacting to the situation and then she re-thought her reaction, _yes _betrayal, she wanted to be rid of me and she never said anything about it, never, not in five years_…)

"That's an old one." He faced her from across the room, looking down at her on the couch. " 'He's not a bad guy, he just does bad things'. Do you know how often I've heard that before?"

"Quite a lot of times, I imagine," Sienna replied calmly. "That doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"You're making excuses for him. You just don't want to admit that _you_ were wrong, that you misjudged him."

Sienna looked angry for the first time. "You know, Bobby, maybe someone who once thought he'd hounded someone to suicide and manipulated a mentally unstable woman into going into a situation where she ended up killing her father, to pick just two examples, maybe that guy shouldn't be throwing stones, because, believe me, that glass house of yours has got _really_ thin windows. I get that you're mad about Alex, and I don't blame you – I'm on your side, here – but stop taking it out on me."

He barely heard the latter part of her words, stung by the unfair accuracy of her criticism. He remembered this from his parents' fights, when he was younger, _you confess everything to them, you think they love you, then later on they know just where to stick the dagger to make sure it hurts_. How dared Sienna use his confession that he was worried about his motives, about some of the things he'd done, to win an argument?

_Because you started it. You criticised her friend and her judgement; did you expect her to sit there and take it?_

He ignored the voice of reason. Tipping his head on one side, he remarked "You're very keen to defend him," in his most insinuating voice, the one that implied he could read all the suspect's secrets, he knew everything already, he was just drawing out the interrogation for his and Eames' amusement and it would only be over when they talked, so why didn't they just talk already and end the agony…?

Sienna sprang up from the couch, really angry now. "Don't you dare pull that Detective Goren crap with me! Don't you dare, Bobby. I am not one of your suspects. You don't mess with my head." Suddenly, a look of sarcastic amusement crossed her face. "Have you been checking up on me, Bobby? Seeing who I've been calling? Is that what this is about?"

"Has that been preying on your mind? That you were calling him and not telling me?"

"I was calling Drew and not telling you because I knew you'd react exactly like this." Her face became passionate. "Damnit, Bobby, he almost died! He risked everything he had to do his job properly, like you or I would. I'm not going to be ashamed of calling someone who used to be one of my closest friends to find out if he's healing properly."

"Maybe you have other things to be ashamed about."

_Oh God_, the smart part of his brain muttered despairingly, taking in the frozen look on Sienna's face. It continued mournfully as the frozen horror was rapidly replaced with a look of absolute fury, _You should never have said that, and if you did, _not_ like that_.

In a low, furious, monotone, Sienna snarled: "I have _nothing_ to be ashamed about, Bobby. If I'd screwed half of London, it would still be none of your business. Nothing to do with you whatsoever. Oh, and by the way, you might like to tell that ex-girlfriend of yours that we're back together. Much as I like your eight-inch cock, I'd rather not hear messages singing its praises in another woman's voice when I visit here."

"You deleted my messages?" A totally nonsensical reply, as his brain struggled desperately to process what Sienna had just tacitly admitted.

"I thought it was the most tactful thing to do. If I'd known you were going to be such an asshole about this, I'd have left it for you to deal with."

"How could you?"

"How could I what? Delete your messages? Oh you mean, how could I sleep with Drew? The usual way, since you ask."

He took refuge in petty meanness. "Given his preferences, I'm surprised he could even get it up."

Sienna's face became mean, almost spiteful, and he suddenly hated himself for provoking her into looking that way. "Three times in one night, as it happens, and frankly that's more that you're capable of right now."

They glowered at each other, furiously. The last time he'd been this angry with a woman, it had been Nicole Wallace's icy features thrust into his face in the interrogation room.

_Sienna is the love of your life, why are you doing this?_

The voice of reason spoke too late, as Sienna stormed out of the room, pausing only to grab her shoes and overnight bag, and growled at him: "That's it. I am leaving, and I am going to my apartment, and you are not going to call me. You are not going to call me for a whole day, Bobby, because that's how long it's going to take me to calm down. And you are only going to call me where you're prepared to talk about this like an adult human being, not a little boy angry that someone else played with his favourite toy."

He started to say something in reply, but was cut off by the bang of the door closing behind her.


	18. Given the Chance Again

" _I've waited, and given the chance again, _

_I'd do it all the same, but either way…._

_I'm always outplayed, but up on the down days._

_I left it the right way, to start again." _

_Embrace, "Ashes". _

Overwhelmed, I close my eyes and listen to the waves lapping against the bridge supports to the side.

I can get no rest. Even the thought of my child doesn't cheer me up, and I don't even want to go into how guilty that makes me feel, but every time I think about him / her / it, I feel like I'm waiting for the hammer to fall. If we have a son, he's in line after me to be Laird McAllister, in due course.

I can decide for myself that I'm happy to leave my sisters to run the family home and the family businesses with my eldest sister's son to inherit in due course, I like being the black sheep, but do I have the right to make that decision for my son? And what about Tanya? There's no way she could carry on her career if we moved back to Scotland.

Why didn't we talk about this more? I know that the answer is because back then, all Tanya and I could think about was having a child.

If I stop thinking about that, I simply go straight back to thinking about that day in June. I can't make the memories go away, and I don't deserve to. I deserve to feel like this.

What I remember most clearly is the sound. Even though it's only two months after the stadium disaster, I have almost no memory of how I got from Cattley's flat to the stadium, just brief impressions of noise and the blare of horns; I must have jumped every red light I came across on the way. All the way there I was thinking, _do I stop and call them again, do I keep going, do I find a police car_, but I took no notice of my own thoughts. The only thing driving me was this fundamental urge to get there and get Tanya and get her out of there.

Does it make me a bad person that I didn't think once about Sienna, or Goren, or Eames?

No memories of the journey there, with one exception. I remember very clearly rounding the corner as I came onto the approach road to the stadium, and the sheer relief I felt as I saw it was still standing. Relief that turned into panic as I realised the road was blocked off by a steel barrier with two security guards standing there. I hit the brakes as sharply as I could without skidding the bike and jumped off.

I tried to tell them the truth about what was going to happen, I really did, but I must have been gabbling at them like a madman. I looked at their sceptical faces, their refusal to take me seriously, and suddenly realised that the major problem with my plan to act like Drew was that, unlike Drew, I can't fight, don't have a gun, and, most importantly, can't tell people what to do.

Drew would have done better. Drew would have factored in all of those problems, and come up with some story about me needing to find my wife urgently, tell them… I don't know, family emergency of some sort, dying parent, I don't know, just something that would have got them to find Tanya for me and get her out of there. Or, better still, call in a bomb scare to the police, get the whole place emptied.

But no, I had to try the honest route, had to try to save everyone and it didn't work.

The two guards conferred for what seemed like hours; can't have been more than a few seconds, then one of them spoke urgently into his radio. I overheard the words "police" and "needed down here", and whilst I realise now that what they probably meant was "Get the police down here to get this ranting madman away from us", I knew a few seconds of hope.

A few seconds in which, for some utterly unknown reason, my subconscious mind chose to return to the subject of instant porridge. I'd noticed earlier that day we'd had nearly a full box in the kitchen cupboard only a few weeks ago, and that this morning, back in normality, it was nearly empty. I heard again my voice, "Who eats porridge in the middle of summer?", and Alex Eames' voice, saying "It's a good thing to eat if you think there's a chance you might be seeing it again soon, and be grateful you'll never suffer from morning sickness…"

I didn't think about that at the time. Maybe it's the fact that I was thinking so intensely about Tanya that caused my subconscious to make the leap. We'd put Tanya's absence of periods for the past few months down to her coming off the pill, assumed it was taking time for her to readjust to not being on it, but suddenly I thought, _absence of periods, sickness in the morning, oh my holy GOD_…

And then, of course, the stadium roof collapsed.

I can still remember that.

Even on a peaceful late summer evening, standing on a bridge with the light chatter of people out for a stroll and a drink surrounding me and the river lapping lazily underneath my feet, I still feel the same hideous grey mixture of horror and fear and guilt, viscerally feel it. My heart is tripping, beating so fast that I feel like I'm going to pass out, but at the same time I'm deathly cold, feeling as though I've been drenched in ice. My mind feels wiped, empty of anything except the knowledge that my world just died in front of me.

I can't describe it properly. I'm a journalist, not a poet. There are no words for what it feels like to see your wife and your unborn child, whose existence you didn't even know about even a few seconds earlier, die in front of you.

Of course, they didn't. Tanya wasn't even in the stadium at the time, she was outside it with Eames, getting some drinks.

But I didn't know that. I think I actually collapsed backwards onto the bike seat for a few seconds, then I jumped up and ran towards the stadium, pleading with God, with anyone, _just let me in, let me in, let me look for them, they'll still be alive, please let them still be alive, even crippled, I don't care, just let Tanya be alive. _The security men had already gone, running fast towards the stadium (what did they think they could do?), and for a few brief seconds I thought I might make it in, I was even looking for the signs for the south stand, trying desperately to remember where they would be. I even began to root through my pockets to find my ticket with the seat numbers on…

And then the wave of humanity pouring out of the stadium began to flood through the exits, and I stood no chance. I fought and fought, trying to shove my way through, but I couldn't get anywhere, until I was knocked off my feet and nearly trampled, but a policeman saw me fall and yanked me onto my feet, dragging me over to the side. I fought and struggled, I remember screaming "My wife, let me in there!" but they held my arms until I saw sense.

I can't even describe those moments. It can't have been that long, maybe only half an hour, I wasn't in any condition to measure the time passing, but for that time… I alternated between frantically trying to find out if Tanya was alive, in hospital, in an air ambulance, somewhere, anywhere, and replaying over and over in my head that horrible simulation of Cattley's, the beams collapsing, crashing down onto the heads of the helpless people underneath.

And then, finally, my phone rang. I stared at it blankly, not recognising the number displayed, then answered it on automatic, and it was Goren, telling me that Tanya was alive, not badly hurt, and on her way to the hospital.

What happened next was odd. Going back into the memory, I can't really account for it, because it's not the way I normally think, but I suddenly thought _the six of us know about the stadium, about why it really collapsed, about how badly the police and MI5 fucked this up, the six of us and Cattley, who the police are already on their way to, right now. Wouldn't it be convenient for them if we never told anyone?_

I'm a believer in democracy. I don't believe the security services of my own state, the people supposed to protect me and my family, would do anything to harm myself and my friends, just for knowing a very embarrassing truth that would severely undermine public confidence in them, at a time of fear and uncertainty, when the country is threatened by terrorists.

Then again, I'm also Drew Davenport's friend. And a journalist. And someone whom the police are starting to look at with interest, unless it's just my imagination…

And then I turn, and I run, not stopping, ignoring any sounds from behind me, all the way back to my bike, and for a heart-stopping second I can't see it, but I look around frantically and see that someone has dragged it out of the way. It's been knocked over on its side, and normally I'd be freaking out about that, but I don't care. It's there, it's in one piece, and all the information Cattley gave me about the flaws in the stadium design is in there too. I yank it upright, jump astride it and the engine roars to life.

And I ride fast, not to the hospital where my pregnant wife is being treated, but all the way across town, running the lights again, hoping and praying that no police car will bother to stop me, all the way to our Head Office. I ditch the bike outside and sprint up the steps, waving my pass at the security guards and heading as fast as I can into the building.

The place is in what looks like chaos, but organised chaos, as everyone scrambles to get the latest news on the stadium disaster up on the website and the copy written for the morning edition. Several televisions are blaring in the background, and the admin staff are running around trying to stay in touch with reporters at the hospitals and the stadium to co-ordinate our coverage.

I hide myself in a side office before anyone can yell at me to go somewhere, and try to figure out who I can trust. I settle for Janice Cooper, an old friend of mine in our legal department who started around the same time I did, and who I consider myself to be sufficiently good friends with that I trust her to keep this secret until she hears from me that we're all okay, rather than immediately cornering one of the writers and putting it on the front page, which is what most people working here would do, in fact it's what I'd do if I wasn't so damn worried about what might happen to me and to Tanya. I find her writing frantically at her desk. Everyone else is glued to the television, so I sneak in unnoticed and sidle over to her.

"Don't interrupt me, Jack, I need to finish this…"

"I need you to look after this." I show her everything Cattley gave me. "Come with me now, this goes in the safe."

"The safe" is slang for the secure room we keep evidence in, anything that might need to be kept secure to prove the truth of a story.

"What's this about, Jack?" She holds my eyes. I make a split-second decision.

"This is evidence about why that stadium really collapsed. I know the truth, Tanya knows the truth, some other friends of ours know the truth, and I need you to keep this safe, because I have a feeling that very soon, people are going to come looking for us, and I want to be able to threaten those people that it will all go public if anything happens to any of us."

"Jesus God, Jack…" Her sentence trails off, and I know she believes me.

"Please, Jan. Please trust me. Please do this for me and my family."

"Okay." She walks over to the safe and starts punching in the combination, then flashes me a grin. "But you had better be planning to do something with that later… hey, where are you going?"

"Check on Tanya," I yell, and run out of the room, and back out through the office and onto the back of my bike, and away to the hospital.

_Oh God._

This is the bit that hurts the most.

Tanya's eyes.

I got there, and ran through the hospital looking everywhere, because the place was in chaos trying to handle gashed and bleeding people from the stadium, and eventually I found her.

Her first words to me were: "Where have you been?", and her eyes…

She smiled as she said that, of course, and I could see she wasn't badly injured, I've nursed Tanya through a couple of broken bones and her face changes if she's in serious physical pain. But her eyes showed everything. She wanted me to be there, and I wasn't.

I abandoned her, and our child. It doesn't matter that I was trying to protect us. She needed me, and I wasn't there, and all I can think about now is that. That, and the fact that I nearly lost both of them.

I know I'm doing it wrong. I should be supporting her. I should be putting my feelings to one side and being a good husband, but I can't, because I'm too weak.

Because every night, I go through it again, dreaming over and over that moment when I saw, when I _thought_ I saw, the two of them dying in front of me. I wasn't there for them then. I can't get close to them, because I'll only let them down.

I can't talk to my wife, and my two closest friends are gone. Sienna to the States to be with Goren, Drew…

Oh fuck, if I ever get any peace from remembering how I let Tanya down, I end up remembering how I screamed at Drew.

He _deserved_ it, dammit. He really did. Drew has pushed me around, and manipulated me, and manipulated Sienna, and caused a lot of pain to a lot of people, and it's past time someone made him look at that….

Just not then. Not when he'd nearly died. No matter what Drew did, he needed me then, and I wasn't there for him, either.

He's the only one who might understand any of this, and the two of us aren't talking. Michael won't let Tanya or I anywhere near him, and I suppose I don't blame Mike, but I miss my friend.

I've let everyone down, and now I'm all alone.

Near me, someone stops walking, then approaches me slowly. I take a deep breath, marshal my resources, and prepare to tell them that yes, I'm fine, no, I'm just a bit tired, really, I'm fine…

I look up and prepare to be polite, and the words freeze in my throat, because Tanya is standing in front of me.

Tanya is standing in front of me, hair loose, wearing a long white dress, lit by the rays of the setting sun. I actually stand there with my jaw gently swinging in the breeze for a few seconds, wondering if I'm seeing things, if I've lost it completely.

Then she hugs me, and I know I haven't.

"How the hell did you find me? I mean, I've missed you… how did you get here?" I'm so overwhelmed by the sensation of warm Tanya holding me that I only just manage to form them into a sentence.

She doesn't reply immediately, just hugs me tighter, fiercely, and I nuzzle against her, and just for a few seconds, all the guilt goes away. I feel her hands on either side of my face, and I look up into those wonderful eyes.

"I knew you needed me."

At this point I seriously begin to wonder if I've somehow fallen into a dream, but she continues, shaking her head thoughtfully: "You haven't been talking to me for ages, Jackie. I've never seen you look miserable when you set off to come up here, but you looked like you were going to war, not going to Newcastle."

"You shouldn't have come all this…"

Mercifully, she puts a finger across my lips. "I love you. You're my Jackie. You needed me, and since I can drive again without needing to pull over and puke every few minutes, I decided I wasn't going to wait for you to come back."

"I…"

"_Jackie, listen to me._"

I shut my mouth obediently.

"I love you. I haven't been here for you." I want to protest that that's the wrong way round, _I_ should be there for _her_, but I keep my mouth closed. "I'm not going to apologise, because, you know, growing a person takes it out of you, and these past few months really haven't been fun. But you need me, I need you, that means we need to fix this."

"Fix what?"

Her eyes pierce mine. "Fix the fact that you don't talk to me. Fix the fact that you spend all day out at work, all night writing or playing the piano, you don't sleep, you don't eat, you've lost too much weight…" (I hadn't even noticed, though now that she mentions it, I _did_ think these leathers didn't fit too well anymore.) "Is it because of Drew? Sisi? The baby? Tell me."

I look her in the eye and say gently: "I don't want to burden you with it."

She could be furious. She could stomp off and yell at me for being a patronising bastard (which pretty much all the people I've ever been involved with would have done, with the exception of… no, Drew _would_ have called me a patronising bastard too).

Instead, being Tanya, she points out: "Yeah, but I _am_ burdened with it, and I want it fixing some time before I have to push this kid out."

I can't argue, and as I look at her, I realise that, as much as anything, I'm missing having her as my friend. We may be the most unlikely-looking couple in London, but right from the beginning, we could talk to each other about anything.

"What is it, Jackie?"

"It's everything." I can't say anymore for a few seconds, because it threatens to overwhelm me. "It's SiSi leaving, it's the fact that we've lost her and Drew for good. It's the fact that you're – we're… having a baby, and I haven't even told my parents or my sisters yet…"

"And?"

So perceptive, my Tanya. She was a very good sergeant, so I'm told, and she runs the dojo like her own personal kingdom, and all of us would follow her anywhere, and I love her very, very much.

And I say without thinking: "And I can't get close to you, or the baby, without seeing you die."

I should never have said that. Tanya's eyes widen. It takes a mighty amount to shock her, but I've just done it, and once more I'm pulled back into the vortex of guilt and fear. We don't speak for several minutes, and I can't bring myself to look at her in case I see her leaving for good, so I stare down into the murky waters of the Tyne, not really seeing anything.

"What… what the hell does that mean?" She turns my face to her, not roughly (Tanya would never, _has _never, hurt me) but irresistibly.

"I saw you die." The words bubble out of me. She's the one person I shouldn't be saying this to, but I can't stop myself. "That afternoon, I saw the roof fall, I saw the stadium collapse, and all I could think was that you were both dead, and afterwards, I should have gone straight to you in the hospital, but I had to try to be clever, and… You looked so hurt, and all I could think was that I'd left you both alone, and ever since, whenever I get close to you, that's what I see."

Tanya snorts, a sharp exhalation in place of speech, and I close my eyes. I've said it and there can be no going back.

Eventually, she says with no expression: "Is that what you were seeing that night after the party?"

I've gone this far, and she is the one person on earth I owe honesty to. "Yes. It was." I don't mean to say this next bit, but: "Every time I try to sleep, that's what I see."

"Bloody hell."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

She turns to me, with an odd expression. "Sorry? It's not you that should be sorry, Jackie, it's me." She says, almost to herself, "I should have spotted this. Seen it any number of times before… Jackie, my love, this is normal."

"No it isn't."

"It is if you've never come close to seeing people die before!" Her tone becomes more authoritative, Sergeant Simmons making a brief re-appearance. "You're still processing it, Jackie. Still coming to terms."

"Is it meant to be this bad?"

"No." She sighs tiredly. "Unless you've gone and lost two of your friends, and just found out you're having a family, and you figure you have to be strong for everyone, because it all falls apart without you… We leaned on you far too much, Jackie." She closes her eyes and looks tired. "_I_ should have been here for _you_."

"You're pregnant."

She glares at me. "Yes. I'm _pregnant_. Not ill, not disabled, not some stupid woman who needs to be kept out of trouble. Fuck's sake, Jackie! I let you down."

I don't agree, but I sense this is important to her in some female way I'm never likely to understand, that her pregnancy doesn't somehow prevent her from doing what she feels she has to do, so I don't argue, I just say: "_I_ let _you_ down."

She reaches for my hand and we link fingers, united for once. "Right, so, now we've agreed we _both_ let each other down, can we start again?"

I smile. A weak smile, but a smile. "I think I'd like that." I lean against her warm shoulder. "I've missed you." She knows I don't just mean this weekend. We stare out at the last rays of the setting sun together, and I feel… washed out and still not completely better, but Tanya is here, and things are _better_, and will be better…

"Hold on, did you say left _both_ of us alone? You knew?" She regards me with a quizzical frown, and I recall those unreal moments in the hospital, pretending to be surprised and thrilled by the news (she looked so happy to be telling me, I didn't want to spoil that…)

"Um." I try a smile. She gives me The Look. "I _do_ figure things out for a living, you know…"

She hugs me again. "My Jackie. I hope our girl's as smart as you."

"Girl?"

Her face suddenly freezes into a mask of horror, and for a nasty second I'm seriously worried, but then…

"Oh shit, Jackie, I forgot to tell you!" She claps a hand over her mouth. "They redid the scan on Friday…"

"I thought it was going to be next Tuesday?" Our baby decided it was going to lie in a funny position during its last scan, and since it obstinately refused to turn itself round so that the technician could get a better picture, we were supposed to be going back to try again when I got back from the north.

"They had a cancellation, gave me a ring, I was free so I went in early, anyway…" She breaks into a huge smile. "It's officially a girl, we're having a little girl, just like I told you from the start."

"How can they tell?"

She pulls some pictures out of her shoulder bag. "See, here, this is it."

I peer at a set of grainy black and white pictures. The technician has helpfully labelled various white blobs: "Head", "Kidneys", "It's a girl!". I really don't know what I'm looking at in the last case, but I'm happy to take Tanya's word for it. I'm too fascinated by the perfect outlines of two feet, and no matter how stupid it sounds, there's a little hand _waving_.

_That's my daughter_.

"I hope she's as smart as you. And as strong. And as gorgeous. And…"

"And I'm freezing, and I need to get indoors and have a pee," Tanya interrupts me. I stifle a giant yawn, suddenly tired, and don't protest as she leads me off the bridge. I suddenly recognise the outlines of a familiar white van…

"Hold on, isn't that Amp's van?"

"Yeah, I borrowed it… thought we'd need something big enough to bring the bike back with us."

"You think of everything."

"Yeah. Just as well you married me, huh?"

"Yes." As we get in, I lean across and murmur: "I love you. How did you find me?"

She shrugs as she unlocks the doors. "I know how much you liked the bridges… I figured I'd either find you here, or wait for you back at Ed's, since you _weren't answering your phone_."

"Sorry."

"It's okay," she murmurs, having made the point, and starts the engine. I'm overcome by a wave of exhaustion; when we get back to Ed's house, I can barely stand on my feet, and don't protest as she peels off my leathers and leads me into the shower, where we stand for a while under the warmth. Normally this would be the beginning of a good end to the evening… but instead we crawl into Ed's giant spare bed and under the huge fluffy duvet, and I'm unconscious nearly as soon as I hit the mattress.

The next time I'm awake, it's morning. I stretch, feeling… _new_. Everything that has plagued me for the last two months is still there, I can feel it at the back of my mind, but for now, Tanya has helped me banish it to somewhere where it can sit until I'm ready to deal with it and move on.

Tanya… I nuzzle against her instinctively, feeling her warmth next to mine. Both of us seem to have forgotten to put any nightclothes on last night… She's delicious. So warm, so alive. _How could I have cut myself off from this?_ I wonder, as I press against her firm, smooth skin. This is what I need, what we both need. I run my hands over her, feeling the changes in her body.

I have never had any difficulty distinguishing Tanya's body from that of a man's. Despite how she sometimes looks with her training gear on, her hair cropped short and those huge muscles gleaming with sweat, naked you can see the curves of her hips more clearly, her breasts, that neat bush of dark hair. As I stroke her gently, I notice the changes very clearly. Her breasts are bigger, and her belly a lot more rounded, the skin fascinatingly tight and smooth. Her muscles are still as strong as ever, though, her shoulders as broad, and the combination of her huge, powerful, form with the rounded curves of pregnancy is… well, it's an _almighty_ turn-on.

"Morning, Jackie." She rolls over and smirks at me, pulling the covers down. "Enjoying the view?"

"_Yes_. In fact I think I might be developing a pregnancy fetish." I stare hungrily at her incredible body. She stares back at mine with equal hunger, and I want her very, very badly.

"Good. You wouldn't _believe_ how horny these pregnancy hormones are making me, and we've still got months to go…"

We roll into each other's arms, Tanya pressing herself _tight_ against me, rubbing against me, and just as our lips meet, I remember, and pull away.

"What is it?"

"We can't do this, can we?" I resist the urge to groan in frustration. I haven't been feeling in the mood for ages and now I finally am… but I'd never forgive myself if I hurt her or the baby.

She looks at me thoughtfully. "Actually, the doctor thinks we can. I'm coming up to twenty weeks along, and as far as anyone can tell, it's a perfectly normal pregnancy. I'm fine, the kid's fine. But if you don't want to…"

"You _know_ I want to."

She grins wickedly. "Well, if you're really that worried about coming inside me… there's _lots_ of ways we can play with each other without that."

I return the grin. "Whatever you want."

"Gonna hold you to that," she begins, and I don't let her finish her sentence, because I think there are _lots_ more things we could be doing with our mouths than talking, and right now I want to enjoy all of them…

Some time later, when both of us have had _exactly_ what we want (several times over and in several different ways), we lie wrapped up together, stroking and kissing gently, but without passion, because now is the time for affection and talking, bonding together again.

"So, what did you think of Sienna's new man?" Tanya murmurs lazily. I realise with a jolt that we haven't really had that conversation, it got lost somewhere in the aftermath of the stadium disaster.

I consider the question, and reply: "Weird."

She grunts. "Me too. Still, if he keeps her happy…"

"I'd say there's no doubt of that." I smile, feeling happy and sad, remembering Sienna's face on the day she left to catch her flight back home to New York.

"I miss her," I say, and Tanya, amazingly, understands.

"I miss them both," she says carefully, and watches for my reaction.

I sigh and rub my face. "I know. I fucked that one up, didn't I?"

"You were under a lot of stress…"

"Still doesn't make it right. I should have apologised long ago."

"It's hard to apologise to someone who doesn't want to see you," she demurs. Perversely, her defence of me just makes me more determined.

"Well, then, I'll _make_ him see me and he can bloody listen to me for once in his life. Even if I have to stake out the hospital and lie in wait."

Tanya chuckles. "Welcome back, Jackie."

We smile at each other, and something pokes me in the ribs. "Ow!"

"What?"

"I think our daughter just kicked me for the first time."

"Yeah, she does that. Welcome to the wonderful world of parenting."

"Can't think of anyone else I'd rather do it with."

She smiles at me, "Me neither," and later that day, we finally load the van and set off, posting Ed's spare key back through the letterbox, securing the bike in the back of the van, then heading back out along the West Road, retracing my route along the road out of the city and up the hill, the giant Angel gleaming in the sun, and as we reach the top of the hill I take my hand off the wheel and clasp hers for a short while, and we smile at each other as we finally crest the top of the hill, and set out upon the road home.


	19. This Night

"_This night is mine,_

_There's only you and I,_

_Tomorrow is such a long time away_

_This night can last forever." _

_Billy Joel, "This Night"._

_New York, December 2005_

_Apartment of Alex Eames_

"Alex! Spill!" Sienna gestured theatrically with her wineglass, nearly spilling some on Alex's table.

"It's not really _that_ exciting."

"So why aren't you telling?"

"Maybe because I want to keep it private?"

Sienna shrugged and pouted. "Okay, suit yourself. I'll just amuse myself by making guesses in the privacy of my head." She took another sip.

Alex snorted. "I think you already know."

"Ah, but I don't know _who_…"

Alex smiled involuntarily as the memory passed through her head. "Okay, but don't tell anyone else."

"Who would I tell? Go on…"

_St Vincent's Hospital, London _

_July 2005_

As she led Tanya away from Davenport's hospital bed, Alex Eames's mind was churning. She hadn't thought this would be an easy visit, but it had worked out even worse than she'd expected; they'd found Davenport, but had to struggle to see him, and now Tanya was banned from his bedside. She couldn't help remembering his lover's words to Tanya: "You weren't there when he came home…"

Interesting, she thought. Michael Jones had been referring to the night when Jack had told Davenport, told everyone in listening distance, that he had worked out that it had been a deliberate decision on Davenport's part to bring Sienna over to London in the hope of using her as bait to catch John Durham, the corrupt police officer he had been tasking with bringing down. Had Davenport genuinely been remorseful? she wondered. Was that what Jones had been referring to? Or had he just been angry that he had been outwitted, his scheme revealed in front of his friends? _Spies aren't supposed to have friends_…

Suddenly, Tanya stopped, and covered her face with her hands for a few seconds. She then roared "FUCK IT!", and began kicking and punching the wall. Just as Eames was wondering whether to intervene, she stopped, leaned her forehead on the wall, and groaned softly, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

Eames watched for a few seconds, then asked: "Feel better?"

Tanya didn't answer for a few seconds. "You know what? Less than-" she looked at her watch "two hours ago, I promised Jack I was going to take it steady whilst I was carrying this kid. Not get into any fights, just be careful. Fucking hell, two hours and I've already broken my word."

Their eyes met. Despite the fact that Tanya had been willing to fight her half an hour ago to get to Davenport's bedside, Eames felt a surge of compassion. Tanya's roiling emotions showed clearly on her face: guilt at having broken her word to her husband, fear for him and for Davenport, anger at having been banned from her friend's bedside, sadness… sadness at what? Eames thought, and the answer occurred to her, _sadness that Sienna is leaving_.

The thought hadn't really occurred to her before, but now that it had, she sensed that it was correct. She had seen how Bobby and Sienna had been looking at each other for the past few days, and she remembered only too clearly how devoted the two of them had been to each other during their time together in New York. _At least until it all went wrong_… She reminded herself that this was one of those situations where you had accept that your role as someone's friend was to stand back and watch, and hope it all worked out okay.

"What the hell do I do now?" Tanya asked the wall, still shaking her head tiredly.

Eames could think of only one answer. "We could go for a cup of tea?"

Fifteen minutes later, they had found the cafeteria where they had left Amp, Tanya's friend and driver. Eames was still marvelling at how Tanya had perked up at the mention of tea. She had once read that the British Empire had been "built on tea and sugar", and she'd thought at the time that the author had been speaking figuratively, implying that the drive to control these two valuable commodities had led the Empire to expand, but now she wondered if he had actually just meant it literally.

They approached the table where Amp was sitting, frowning at a crossword in the back of a ragged newspaper. He looked up. "How'd it go?"

"Really could have gone better." Tanya dropped heavily into a nearby chair and sighed. "Tell me, Duncan, I don't suppose you have any idea how I can go back to the start of the day and start again?"

"Dunno about that, I could do you an egg custard and a cup of tea." Amp smiled, got up and shambled across to the counter, returning a few minutes later with two steaming cups and a couple of pastries. He nodded at Eames. "I got you a coffee. It's milk and three sugars, right?"

She nodded, surprised, then remembered that she'd drunk coffee at the party at Tanya's house the preceding night. The memory of how that night had ended drifted through her mind, and she couldn't help smiling…

Beside her, Tanya seemed to have revived, and Amp was frowning at the crossword. "Six letters, fruit, ends in 't'."

"Kumquat," Tanya suggested.

"Too many letters."

"Write small," Tanya advised him, then looked up at Eames with a wry smile. "So, Alex, maybe you can help me solve a mystery…"

"Umm?" She sipped her coffee.

Tanya continued to smile. "Well, first, I owe you a big vote of thanks for clearing the house for us last night all on your own last night, you didn't have to."

"It doesn't matter." She hoped she wasn't blushing. Why was she suddenly feeling embarrassed?

"But there is one thing I was wondering."

"What's that?"

Tanya grinned evilly. "Well, all the plates were put away in the cupboards."

"And?"

"Well, I know for a fact that Jack can't reach the cupboards, because I always have to put those plates away, and you're about the same height he is… So how did they get up there?" She grinned even more evilly at Alex's blush. "It wouldn't have anything to do with the pair of shoes I tripped over when I came back in the house early this morning?"

"Ummm…" She looked up, met Tanya's eyes, and suddenly grinned herself, a woman-to-woman smirk of success. "Yes, actually it would…"

_London, June 2007_

_The night before_

_House of Tanya and Jack Simmons-McAllister_

"Jesus, what a mess." She hadn't realised she'd spoken aloud.

"Yeah."

She hadn't been expecting an answer. She whirled around, to see a man with short brown hair and broad shoulders standing in the doorway of the kitchen, contemplating the mess.

"It's not that bad, though," he continued, stepping through and regarding the pile of dead plates and glasses. "If we stick it all in the dishwasher, we can probably clear it up quite quickly."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" She frowned at him with surprise.

"Oh, sorry." He smiled at her and held out a hand. "Mark Donaghue. I'm one of Tanya's students."

"I thought I'd seen you before," she murmured, remembering the first time she'd seen Tanya at her dojo, the training fight between her and her students. Mark had been the referee, she recalled.

"And you are...? Sorry, I didn't really catch your name at the party."

"Alex Eames." She wondered how to explain her presence, and fell back on: "I'm a friend of Sienna's."

"Oh, yes." Mark nodded, and began stacking plates in the dishwasher. He was obviously familiar with the layout of the kitchen, and she helped him, passing him the dirty plates and trawling the rest of the house for abandoned glasses. Mark set the machine working, and looked at her. "I was thinking I'd stick around, maybe have another drink, then put things away. Favour to Tanya."

"Yes, pregnant women shouldn't be worrying about clearing up," she agreed. "But don't worry, I can do that. I'm staying here anyway."

"You and your partner?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I saw you at the dojo with someone else, I'm assuming he's your partner. Gordon?"

She frowned for a few seconds, then enlightenment dawned. "Oh! It's _Goren_. Bobby Goren, and yes, we work together."

"I suppose he's staying here too," Mark remarked. His tone was dry, but there was a slight hint of a smile.

"Yes, he is," she replied smoothly, not seeing that it was any of his business, and noting that he didn't seem to be making any move towards the door. Instead, he was fishing around inside another cupboard.

"Would you like a drink, too?" he called over his shoulder. She blinked.

"You're very free with someone else's drink," she pointed out. "Sorry, I didn't mean that quite how it sounded," she added hastily, as Mark raised his eyebrows.

He smiled. "It's okay. I've known Tanya for a while now, since she trained me."

"She trained you? You're in the force?"

"Yes." He smiled proudly. "I work in the Art and Antiques Squad." He hefted an expensive-looking bottle. "If it helps, this was my Christmas present to her and Jack. I doubt they'll mind if we have a wee glass."

She could think of no polite reason to refuse. "Okay, but let's finish cleaning up the kitchen first."

Mark poured two generous glasses. She sniffed it; it was whisky.

"Sorry, I should have asked first if you liked whisky."

"It's fine. Thanks."

They worked in companionable silence, wiping surfaces, straightening the furniture, occasionally asking each other to pass a cloth or look for a wine stopper in the cutlery drawer. It was an unexpected end to the weekend, she thought, but given the craziness of the past few days, in some ways it was a relief to be doing something normal. She thought of her own apartment longingly. It would be good to see something familiar, she thought. She had been too busy until now, but seeing Tanya and Jack's house filled with their friends had reminded her how much she was missing her own family, people who cared for her. The loneliness that sometimes plagued her when she returned home on a Friday night to a quiet apartment suddenly returned…

Suddenly, a loud cry came from above. She looked up suddenly, and in the corner of her eye she saw Mark doing the same. The same realisation came over both of them, and she blushed a little on Bobby's behalf, whilst from beside her came a masculine chuckle.

"Sounds like someone's having a good night," Mark remarked. Perhaps it was the whisky, but she could hear a slight lilt in his voice, a faintly Irish accent. She caught his eye, noticing that he had light brown eyes, and a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. She was reminded rather wistfully of her boyfriend of two years ago, Stephen Vallis, who had had the same brown hair and pale skin, but who had had blue-green eyes and a slimmer build, like a tennis player. Mark was slightly shorter, with broader shoulders and a more stocky figure. She recalled the fight in the dojo, however, the agility with which he had danced between the fighters, keeping an eye out for serious injuries, telling them when they had to leave the floor, and realised that he must be physically fit. _At least, judging by that rather fine ass he has in those jeans_…

Ignoring her libido, she dragged herself back to the present. She replied, "Yeah, I guess so," and hoped suddenly that he couldn't hear the slight hint of envy in her voice. She didn't begrudge Bobby his reunion with Sienna, but the knowledge that he was in bed with his long-lost girlfriend whilst she was downstairs tidying away dirty plates wasn't doing so much for her state of mind.

"Can I top your glass up?" Mark asked, lifting the bottle.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He frowned comically. "I was hoping I was succeeding." He took in her expression and laughed ruefully. "Sorry, that's a terrible line. I've been off the scene for a while."

She smiled back at him with some sympathy, and surprised herself by replying: "Yes, I'd like some more. Thanks."

He poured the drink, and asked: "Shall we go sit outside? It'll be a bit fresher than in here. London buildings aren't really designed for heatwaves."

She looked around at the kitchen, and realised it was pretty much tidy. She wondered for a split second about pleading tiredness and going to bed. She _was_ tired, that much was true, but she also felt as though she wouldn't sleep if she did. _I need time to come down_. Time to recover from the intensity of the past few days.

"Okay, yes, let's do that. You can tell me more about policing the art world."

Mark chuckled again and opened the door for her. "Oh, it would be so much easier if I got to do that. I mainly end up policing the people who steal art. These days it's all organised crime, it's one of the reasons I train with Tanya." He sighed. "People have this image of art thieves as being Pierce Brosnan in a black ninja suit, stealing for reclusive billionaires. It's more like the same bastards who deal drugs and illegal arms, and they smash their way in with military equipment and shoot people on the way out."

"That's the truth," she agreed, settling into a seat beside him in Tanya's front garden. He had switched on the outside light, and lit a small candle on the table in front of them. It was a pleasant night, hot but with a slight breeze. In reply to his questioning look, she continued: "Bobby and I are Major Case: art theft is part of our remit. I know what you mean… although we did have a very interesting art-related case a few years ago, more of a mystery than the sort of raid you normally encounter."

"Can you tell me about it?" He seemed genuinely interested, and Eames rather enjoyed the sensation of being with someone who seemed to have no difficulty with the concept that she was his equal and a fellow officer. _Shouldn't be an issue in this day and age_, she thought, but she still came across an annoying number of male cops who assumed she was somehow less experienced, junior to them, just because she didn't possess the same… equipment. (At the same time, however, she was certain she'd caught Mark checking out _her_ backside in the kitchen. Some things never changed.)

"Sure." She smiled. "Bobby and I were called in after the death of the curator - this would have been about four years ago now…"

An hour later, the level in the whisky bottle had dropped somewhat. They had not stopped talking. She had learned that Mark was two years younger than she, that he intended to take his black belt in the next two months, that he had joined the Metropolitan Police on the fast-track after leaving university, and had been with the Art and Antiques Squad for the past five years. He had learned that she enjoyed her job, was the only person who could partner Bobby Goren without being driven crazy, and that she needed to remember to buy some presents for her family when she got home. This latter had prompted Mark to go thoughtful for a few minutes. She hadn't felt the need to interrupt, instead choosing to remain in companionable silence as she sipped the last of her drink, the whisky burning pleasantly on the way down.

"Sorry," he remarked, lifting his head up after a few minutes. "I was just thinking about my kids."

"You have kids? How many?"

"Two; boy and a girl. I'm seeing him tomorrow; Lucy's off with her mother, some family event with only women invited."

"Ah." She didn't need him to fill in the rest of the details. It was a common story in the modern age.

"How about you? I mean…" Mark frowned in confusion and broke off. It wasn't clear to her what he had been going to say, and she suspected it wasn't too clear to him, either. She dealt with the situation by choosing to reply: "I'm not married at the moment."

"Ah. Same boat as me, hmm?"

"Um, actually, no… My husband died in the line of duty."

"Oh, shit." Mark clapped a hand to his mouth. "I'm very sorry. That was tactless."

"It's okay, you couldn't have known. People ask that all the time." She shook her head slowly. "It was a long time ago. I miss him, but…"

"You've got to move on." Mark spoke roughly, almost harshly, and he drained the rest of his whisky with a decisive gulp.

"Yeah."

She didn't know what prompted her to say what she said next, but she found herself asking: "How about you… is it…"

"Recent? Yeah. I got divorced last year."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His tone was rough. "I was an idiot and I deserved it."

"What happened?"

She wished she hadn't asked, as he replied with a trace of bitterness in his tone: "The usual. I got drunk and screwed the babysitter. My wife found out, threw me out, and wouldn't let me back in."

"Oh." She sought to regain her equilibrium. "Um, I'm guessing that if you want to get back out into the dating scene, you might not want to tell that to other women."

For a second he glared at her, then, almost reluctantly, smiled. "Sorry. I'm still not really over it."

"No law says you have to be over anything…" She broke off at a slight sound in the road outside. "Did you hear that?" She glanced at the road, and saw a human shape in the street.

"It's often busy round here," Mark replied.

"I think I'd be happier inside," she said quickly, and snatched her glass from the table. Mark, looking puzzled, followed her in, and shut the door behind them; she was relieved to hear him lock it and draw the curtain across. She moved lightly upstairs, hearing the sound of snoring from Tanya and Jack's room, and moved into the spare bedroom she would be sleeping in that night without putting the light on. Carefully she twitched aside the curtain and peered out into the street.

A black SUV had pulled up outside the house, and the footsteps belonged to a man dressed in black, who was carefully patrolling up and down the street. As she watched, he paused, and leaned through the SUV's window to talk to someone inside. There was something familiar about the movement, and suddenly she relaxed, realising what was going on.

"What is it?"

She hadn't heard Mark come into the room behind her, and she jumped and whirled round. "Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you."

"It's okay."

He crossed and peered out himself, remarking: "Hmm, that's interesting."

As she looked at him, he continued: "I recognise the type of car." He raised a curious eyebrow, and something about the tone of his voice and the expression reminded her that he, too was a police officer.

"Then… you probably also recognise that I can't talk to you about it."

"If Tanya's house is being watched by the police, I'd like to know why," he replied. "I have contacts, I can find out…"

"It's not really about Tanya or Jack," she replied, marvelling inwardly at the loyalty Tanya seemed to inspire in her students. "It's a security matter, they're watching us for protection."

He frowned, then nodded. "Okay, but can you tell her that if she needs any help, anything, I'll do what I can."

"Of course." She sat down on the bed, sighing with tiredness.

Mark sat down beside her. "I've put away the plates and things from the washer," he remarked, rather awkwardly.

"Good, Tanya will be grateful," she replied, with equal awkwardness. She was suddenly very physically aware that she was in a bedroom, sat on a bed, with a man. A man who appeared to be looking at her with interest. A man with nice eyes, and a good smile…

"Why did you screw the babysitter?" she asked suddenly.

"Long story," he began, then stopped, and began again: "Jess and I – my ex-wife – we knew we'd made a mistake one year in, but she got pregnant, and we thought we'd try to stay together for the kids. We stopped sleeping together before they were born. The babysitter was an old friend of Jess's, she and I always flirted at parties… You know how this goes…"

"Yeah." She looked into his eyes, and smiled. "That's a better way of saying it. You should definitely try using that if you're going back on the scene…"

"Oh, does that get the female seal of approval?" He smiled suddenly, an electric smile. She was struck by a burst of utterly unexpected physical desire. _Where is this coming from?_ she wondered, even as she returned the smile, looking deep into Mark's eyes.

_Because you nearly died in the past two days. Because you want to feel alive._

_A man you don't know and won't see again…_

_A good man. Why not?_

"Yes, it does…" Almost in a trance, she leaned forward, then stopped, then watched as Mark, too, leant forward, and their lips touched. It was a shy kiss at first, lips only, then Mark dared to gently push his tongue forwards, between her lips… she found herself opening her mouth, the kiss deepening as she reached for his body, grasping his upper arms lightly, feeling the muscle there contract…

Mark pulled away, gently, looking somewhat dazed. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked carefully. "I mean, you've had a bit to drink, I've had a bit to drink…"

She looked him deep in the eyes again. "Yes, I'm sure it's what I want, as long as we both agree to stop any time one of us wants to."

"Not a problem," he agreed, shifting slightly on the bed like a nervous boy.

"What is it?" she asked gently, although she thought she knew. When he didn't answer immediately, she asked carefully: "Am I the…"

"No… well, not really. I saw someone for a while after Jess and I split up, it was a disaster… put me off for a while…"

"Perhaps it's time you got back out there, then," she replied, surprising herself with her own decisiveness, and leaned forwards. This time, Mark returned the kiss more enthusiastically, and there was no hesitation as he reached for her, pulling her body tight against him. She could feel his warmth through the thin cotton shirt he was wearing. Eagerly, she reached for the buttons, undoing them. She half-expected him to be surprised by her boldness, but he smiled gently, then reached for her shirt, undid it, and slipped it down her arms.

She was struck once more by the strangeness of the situation as the air hit her skin, but as Mark pulled his own shirt off desire hit her more strongly than ever. He had a powerful chest, the strong muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing under pale skin as the moonlight through the window limned his body. The absence of clothing on his upper body only made the fact that he was still wearing his jeans more erotic. She could see a distinct bulge just below his belt buckle, and wanted to reach out and caress it, but Mark surprised her by wrapping his arms around her back, whilst he kissed his way down her neck and chest to the top of her breasts, still clad in the white silk bra she was wearing.

He looked up, brown eyes hot with desire: "Do you like that?" he asked hoarsely, and she sensed his eagerness to please, his faint nervousness at not having done this for a while.

"Yes, yes, I love it, please don't stop," she whispered urgently, wrapping her own arms around his upper body, feeling the warmth of smooth male skin and muscle. She groaned softly as his strong fingers undid her bra and slid the straps down her shoulders, peeling it off completely. His kisses reached her nipple, drawing the blood into it and making it tighten into a small bead, which he flicked hard with his tongue, making her gasp. She pushed forward against him, and they fell onto the bed together, bodies entangling so that she lay between his legs.

His erection rubbed against her lower belly, and she reached down, fondling the length of him through the thick cotton of his jeans. He groaned deeply, and for a second she was worried the others in the house would hear them, but she dismissed the thought, thinking, _who cares?_, and then forgot it entirely as she and Mark began to kiss each other's naked bodies. She sensed that it would have to be she who moved things on, and she asked herself one last time if she wanted this, then decided firmly, _Yes, this is what I need_.

She reached for Mark's belt buckle, and undid it, then unfastened the top snap of his jeans and undid the zip. His back arched and his eyes closed as she slid a hand down his belly, and grasped the smooth, firm flesh under the cotton briefs he was wearing. It leapt in her hand, and she felt herself get ready, her body warming and lubricating itself.

"Please," she moaned softly in his ear, "me too."

He got the idea instantly, and gently undid her own jeans, pushing them down over her hips, then sliding his fingers down and inside. She spread her legs wide to make it easier for him, rubbing herself against his hand with little cries of pleasure, then decisively let go of him, reached down and pushed off all her own clothes so that she was completely naked.

He looked at her with something like awe in his eyes. "You are… you're beautiful," he murmured softly.

"You're incredible," she replied, and reached her mouth up to kiss him. Their kiss was urgent now, sexual, as Mark's tongue pushed firmly between her lips and his erection rubbed against her belly.

A thought occurred to her: "Have you got any…"

"Yes, in my wallet." He pulled away briefly and retrieved the wallet, pulling out a small foil wrapper. "Oh, God, but you're fucking incredible."

"So are you," she replied, and continued to rub and fondle him, feeling his fingers push inside her lips and play with the soft nub of sensitive flesh above them with extreme pleasure. She wanted the real thing, now, she decided, and pulled off his briefs. He was long, perfectly in proportion, and fully erect. Also not circumcised, she realised, but she thought she knew what to do, and gently pushed down his foreskin, revealing the slick, warm skin underneath. Mark cried out, and for a second she feared she had hurt him, but as he reached for her hand and rubbed it up and down the shaft, she realised it had been a cry of pleasure, and she rubbed herself against his body, then took the condom from him, murmuring, "Please, let me."

She unrolled it down his length, and the two of them embraced, his strong arms gripping her whilst he kissed her urgently, everywhere, as they rolled together and he lifted himself over her. For a second he hesitated, but then thrust wildly, instinctively, and slipped inside her, and they were together, their bodies joined completely. She cried out with pleasure as he found the perfect rhythm; she had taken care to get fully aroused before allowing him in, thinking that this might be a short coupling, and as he thrust harder and harder, she cried out again, wildly, as she came, followed by his climax seconds later.

"Was that… Did you…" he murmured roughly, still inside her, his body dripping with sweat.

"Yes. I did. And that was fantastic," she reassured him, shivering with the aftermath of pleasure and the sensual comfort of a warm, satisfied male on top of her body. They nestled together and lay there in combined warmth, and after a while they began again, this time more slowly, and she came twice more, Mark's mouth proving as satisfying as every other part of him, and finally, they slept the sleep of the fully sated, his arm thrown protectively over her body.

The rest of the morning she remembered with a little sadness, as Mark had had to dress and leave more quickly than either of them would have liked, as he had to pick his son up from his ex-wife's house.

"You are…" He shook his head and chuckled. "You're an incredible woman, Alex Eames. I wish you were stopping in London."

She surprised herself by replying: "I wish that too. But… it's been amazing. Thank you."

He leaned forward and kissed her for the last time. "Thank you, too," he replied, smiled, and left. She watched him leave fondly, then returned to the blissful oblivion of sleep.

_New York, December 2005._

_Apartment of Alex Eames._

Sienna chuckled as Alex finished her tale (editing some of the details). "Sounds like you had a good night. You and Mark, hmm? I didn't really know him that well, but he seemed like a good guy."

Eames smiled a very feminine smile of satisfied recollection. "He was."

Sienna looked at her, suddenly, gravely, and Eames felt a chill of foreboding sweep away the previous minute's jollity, as the other woman asked: "Alex… can I tell you something in confidence?"

"That depends on what it is," she replied cautiously.

"Something which I feel I should tell you about as my friend… but which, if I do, you'll need to act surprised about when Deakins tells you about it on Monday, this has to be kept secret."

Eames wondered for a few seconds if she should listen, but something about Sienna's tone, her serious expression, decided it for her. She wanted to know this. "Okay, go on. I will keep it secret."

"They want us to go back."

"Go back where? Who?"

"MI5, and they want us to go back to London for a few days next week."

"A few days? Sienna, Christmas is nearly here! I have plans!"

Sienna shrugged apologetically. "Don't blame me, I'm only the messenger. We'll be back before Christmas, I made them promise me."

"Who do they need?"

"You, me, and Bobby. They need to ask us more questions about the stadium. We're not under suspicion, they just need to re-question us in the light of new evidence as part of the case against Andropov and the other suspects."

"Have you told him yet?"

Sienna closed her eyes as she replied: "No." She forestalled Eames' next comment with a rushed: "But I will do, Alex, I will do. As soon as I can. This weekend, I'm going to make Bobby listen to me."

"I hope you can," Eames replied fervently. She finished her wine, and tried not to listen to the feelings of foreboding that swept through her at the thought of returning to London.

She had a strong feeling that this would not be anything like as simple, or easy, as Sienna was suggesting. _Or as safe_, she thought, and shivered.


	20. Glass Houses and Stones

_Apartment of __Bobby Goren, New York._

_December 2005._

I set up the laptop on Bobby's kitchen table, switched it on, pulled up a chair, and winced. I was spending far too much time in front of a computer these days and it was starting to give me a bad neck. _Perhaps I can ask Bobby for a massage_, I thought wryly, and picked up the headset. I knew I should probably not use my computer at home in the evenings if I was really concerned about my neck, but I wanted to hear a friendly voice. London was five hours ahead of New York; if I didn't call now, Tanya would probably be in bed.

As I opened up Skype, checked Tanya was online and "called" her via the Internet, I reflected that, not all that long ago, the likelihood of Tanya being in bed at this time on a Friday evening would have been next to nothing, because she, Jack, Drew, and myself would have been out hitting the town. So much had happened in so short a space of time.

If Bobby and I had been getting along well, I thought, it wouldn't matter at all. I'd still miss them – I _did_ still miss them – but Bobby and I could be planning a visit to London. Or, if he couldn't leave his mother, a short visit for me, followed by a romantic few days together for he and I…

As the computer made ringing noises, I reflected ruefully that the odds of Bobby welcoming the idea of my taking a solo trip to London at this moment in time were not what anyone would call "good". I sighed. I had sworn when I'd come back to New York that this time around, things would be different. I'd be upfront and honest about my feelings with Bobby, and do my best to steer a course in between the two extremes of either expecting him to explain himself to me all the time, even in his worst moods, or simply leaving him to stew and waiting for him to come out of his shell, whilst sulking about it and being difficult. Our problems had been at least partly my fault, and I really, really, wanted this to work the second time around.

The computer made its chirpy "Tanya has answered your call" noise, and Tanya's face appeared onscreen. It was difficult to tell from the slightly grainy webcam picture, but she looked well. Her face was slightly softer than when I'd previously known her, but since she was around eight months pregnant, that wasn't exactly surprising.

That was another reason I wanted to go back, I thought. I wanted to hold Baby Simmons-McAllister as soon as she was born, and coo over her, and look for signs of Jack or Tanya in her little face. Sentimental, maybe, but as Tanya's best friend, I had a _right_ to be soppy over her and Jack's firstborn, and I damn well intended to exercise it.

Tanya's exuberant voice broke into my thoughts. "Hey, SiSi! How are you?"

"Knackered," I replied honestly.

"Yeah, you kind of look it. Got yourself a big glass of something cold and refreshing?"

"More like warming and reviving," I replied, holding up the glass of red wine I had just poured. "New York in December has to be experienced to be believed."

"I hear you. It's pretty cold and miserable over here, but who cares? Jack and I are just staying in most of the time anyway."

"How's the redecorating going?" After seeing the first scans of his daughter, Jack had apparently become a man possessed, and spent many hours lovingly redecorating and child-proofing the house, and preparing a nursery. Tanya viewed this indulgently as a form of displacement activity, which it undoubtedly was.

"Oh, just fine. At least, I think just fine, Jack's flapping that the nursery won't be finished in time. I keep telling him that it's not like it will matter, they can only see about two feet in any direction anyway, but at least it's keeping him busy. How are you? How's things with Bobby?"

Tanya's eyes, always sharp, scanned my face as I answered honestly: "Not great, but I'm hoping to change that this weekend."

"Hmm?"

"We haven't been talking very much lately."

"Wasn't that the problem last time?"

"Hell yes. It's just been so difficult, Tan. Really, really difficult. His mother's not been well, he and Eames had an incredibly difficult case recently, they nearly fell out over it-" (I made a split-second decision to respect Alex's privacy and not tell Tanya the whole truth) "-and it's been weird. It's just like he suddenly decided to stop talking to me."

"What, completely?"

"Well, no, he will still ask me to pass him the milk in the mornings... We're still friendly… well sort-of… we still spend time together. It's weird, things were going really well. We went out one night a couple of weeks ago to a jazz club together, had a great time. I was even going to ask him if he wanted to think about the two of us moving back in together… then, after that night, it's like the shutters came down inside his head and he's just not letting me in."

"You letting _him_ in?" Tanya's eyes pierced mine, and I wondered, not for the first time, exactly how much she knew, or thought she knew. You underestimated Tanya's intelligence at your own peril.

I gave a lopsided smirk, choosing to misinterpret the question. "Hey, I would if I could… He hasn't been so interested lately, but that's not really unusual when he's really deep into a case. It's just that he isn't coming _out_ of it, Tan. I feel like I've done something wrong and I don't know what, and he won't tell me, and if I say anything, I might just say the wrong thing and make it worse."

Tanya sighed. "Jesus Christ, SiSi, you do like to make your own life complicated!"

_Says the killer ex-soldier with a spy for a best friend, __who's pregnant by the son of a Scottish laird,_ I thought, but didn't say. "I love him, Tan. That's all there is to it. And trust me, I don't plan on letting this go on any longer. This weekend, we're going to go for walks, we're going to eat dinner together… I got him to agree that we'd both leave our work at home and not make any plans for the weekend, apart from him seeing his mom. We're gonna _talk_."

"Sounds like a plan."

"I just hope it works."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed." Tanya yawned. "Shit, I get tired so easily these days. Sorry, SiSi."

"Hey, no problem. You go rest and grow some more baby."

Tanya rolled her eyes. "Oh God, I hope not. I've already had three people ask me if it's twins. I think we're having some sort of giant baby. They had better have _really_ good drugs on that fricken' ward in one month's time, or somebody's getting hurt."

I mentally pictured a team of panicky men and women in white coats trying to deal with an angry Tanya in labour, and silently wished them good luck, along with Jack, who had already told me that Tanya had banned him from her bedside during the birth, on the grounds that she didn't want him to hear her screaming in pain. I had the impression that he was secretly rather relieved.

"Where is he, anyway?" Tanya asked.

"Who? Bobby? Out having some drinks with one of the other guys in his squad. I figured it would be a good thing if he didn't come straight home from work… He and Mike can have a few drinks, he can wind down a bit from work, we'll both go to bed, wake up tomorrow morning and make a fresh start."

"I wish you guys luck, SiSi. I really do. Remember, if Jack and I can make it work, anything's possible."

I smiled at my friend. It meant a lot to me to have her behind me. Her and Alex Eames, I thought, and the thought cheered me considerably. "Thanks, Tan. I'll speak to you soon."

"Yeah. Love ya, SiSi."

"Love you too, and give my love to Jack and the bump."

"They send their love back. See you soon."

"Yeah. Take care of yourself."

"You too."

The call ended. I checked my watch. Bobby wouldn't be home for a while yet. I reheated some pasta and sauce, munched it with some salad and bread, then settled in with the remains of the glass of wine and a book I was trying to finish. I was deeply tired myself, ready to drop, and wanted nothing more than a good night's rest, but I wanted to be awake to greet Bobby, and forced myself to focus on the thriller I was reading.

Some time later, the door banged open, and I could hear Bobby's footsteps as he stumbled in and slammed the door shut. Sounded like he'd had a few… well, that was the plan, that he and Mike Logan would have a good night, just a few drinks to wind down at the end of the week, then Bobby and I could get an early night and then spend the weekend together.

I took a deep breath, and composed my face into a welcoming smile. It wasn't that hard; I truly did want things to work with Bobby, the love of my life. _Fingers crossed_, I thought, _this weekend will solve all our problems_.

_O'Leary's Bar, New York. _

_Half an hour earlier._

Being smart made it worse.

He finished his drink, glanced across at the bar, and decided it was too busy. He couldn't face trying to shoulder his way through the crowd. Someone his size could do that, no problem, but not without being noticed, and he disliked the idea of having everyone staring at him, looking at the big drunken man in a suit, wondering what his problem was.

They would be wrong. He didn't really have any problems. Rationally, he knew that.

Being smart made it worse, because you could see just how stupid you were being, but it didn't stop you being that way.

Being smart didn't change your feelings, it just let you see how stupid they were, how irrational. Made you feel worse.

Beside him, he sensed Mike Logan's unspoken relief that he, Goren, had not gone off to buy another drink, and that made him pause for thought; was Logan relieved because he felt that he would have had to intervene, persuade a drunken Bobby Goren that he'd had enough? _Perhaps he's just relieved he won't have to carry me home_. He was sure he could still walk, and the smart, observant part of his brain that was still working muttered _damnit, Goren, if you're even having to _ask_ that question, you should stop now._

The less smart part was shouting more loudly, _I deserve it. It's been a long day. It's been a long week. How could she do that?_

Oh, he knew he was being stupid. His feelings of hurt, of anger, they were all irrational. It had been five years ago and Eames had withdrawn the letter. She had cried. She had apologised, and he had maturely accepted the apology, brushing off the incident with a glib reply about his being an acquired taste.

He had no right to be angry. He asked her to put up with him, his peculiarities, his introvertedness. He expected her to drive him, to defend him, to collar the suspects, to play her part in the carefully-crafted scenarios he created to catch the perps, and never, ever to complain. Being smart, he knew that theirs was a delicately-balanced partnership, that all she had to do was say something and he would do things differently, that each of them consented to the terms of their partnership every day. That he was very, very lucky to have her.

But part of him raged at her. Part of him wanted to yell "How could you!" to her face, accuse her of betraying him. Part of him wanted to show how much that hurt, how much she had hurt him.

He was smart enough to know that was stupid. Human, but stupid.

And so, the Friday after that fateful day in court, he waited for her to leave work before him, then suggested to Mike Logan that they hit one of the local bars to unwind. Logan agreed readily. He was almost tempted to wonder if he and Eames had been discussing the situation, if Eames had primed Logan to say yes if Goren suggested anything like this. _Or Sienna_. Logan and Sienna got on well. Too well; Sienna always smiled far too readily at Logan's brand of obvious charm. What was this thing she had for guys who acted like that?

The smart part of his brain muttered quickly _Don't go there. It's the past. Forget it._

The stupid part replied _She called him. She called him and didn't tell me. _

_They were friends for two years and he was seriously injured. One of the reasons you love her so much is that huge, forgiving, loving, heart of hers. She didn't tell you because she knew you wouldn't like it, and she doesn't have to justify what she does to you. Would you want her to stifle her feelings, just to make you happy?_

The stupid part of him muttered something about how she _should_ be trying to make him happy. She had left him, after all, not the other way around. Damnit, he wanted another drink.

He looked across at the bar, and was interrupted by Logan saying pointedly, "Goren, I'm gonna head for home. I got things to do tomorrow." He left the unspoken _You really wanna sit here in a bar on your own drinking and feeling sorry for yourself?_ off of the end of the sentence, but Goren could hear it there, hanging in the silence. Grumpily, he got up and they left the bar, Logan peeling off in the direction of a nearby cab, whilst Goren decided to walk.

He walked quickly, through the streets, realising as he did that he was walking too quickly, the rapid stumble of the drunk anxious to get home, but unable to stop himself from doing it. Arriving at his apartment, he fumbled a little with the key, then shoved open the door and kicked it shut behind him.

From inside the apartment, he heard Sienna's voice: "Hi, Bobby. Long day? How was your mom?"

She knew he and Logan had gone for a few drinks, so wasn't angry. As he came into the room, he saw that she'd been drinking herself. A large wine glass stood nearly empty beside a half-empty wine bottle on the table beside the couch, where she was curled up with a book and a rug keeping her warm.

He smiled at her, then knelt down beside her. She carefully bookmarked the page, then allowed him to kiss her, nuzzling into his arms. For a minute, the day seemed to be getting better, but as the kiss deepened and his hands strayed southwards towards the softer parts of her body, she tensed and gently detached herself.

"Sorry… I don't really want to tonight." She smiled apologetically, but firmly.

"Sienna…" He murmured gently into her ear, crooning her name softly as he stroked her side. She relaxed a little, but her expression didn't change.

"Bobby, you know I don't like to when I'm tired and I've had a drink. I want to be at my best for you. I promise you, tomorrow morning and the rest of the weekend, I'm all yours, for as long as you like, however you like."

"Huh. Okay, then." He pulled away, a trifle roughly, and knew without needing to look that her expression would be slightly guilty, but resolute, and a little angry at him for not being more gracious about it.

The smart part of his mind knew that he had no right to demand that she stay sober for his benefit, that she was as entitled as he was to a few drinks at the end of a long day, but it was beginning to be drowned out by the sense of self-righteousness mixed with self-pity. Did every female he encountered have to make him suffer?

Now_ you're being self-pitying_.

_After what they've all done to me, I'm entitled. First my mom, then Nicole, then Sienna, then Nelda, and now Alex_.

_Only two of those five should even be in that list, and you emerged victorious over both of them. This is not a good line of thought. _

_The hell with that! I don't deserve this! _

Rationally, he knew that the alcohol in his bloodstream was still being absorbed, that he was getting drunker and his thinking more clouded, and that he should go drink a pint of water and sleep it off, ready to wake up with Sienna the following morning, but the anger wasn't subsiding. Sienna was looking at him carefully now. That was another thing. Before, she had always been emotional when they disagreed, out of control. Now, she regarded him with a kind of icy aloofness, appearing almost patronising. He did not like it at all.

_You're exaggerating. You're seeing things that aren't there._

_No I'm not! I used to be in charge around here!_

The sheer childishness of that last thought shook him out of the train of thought he was on, and forced him to calm down a little. He knew that to criticise Sienna for sometimes coming across as aloof, even bossy, was about as dumb as criticising James Deakins for thinking he could tell Goren what to do. That was his _job_, and it was Sienna's job to take charge of situations where she frequently had cops, agents and assorted other law-enforcement personnel from several entirely different organisations on the same team with different agendas.

She had to be dominant with them right from the start, managing the difficult act of getting them to follow her lead, but without alienating them. A certain aloofness, even superiority, had to enter into that, and she found it hard to slip out of that persona and into her normal self sometimes, just like he did. If he had a problem with that, it was his problem, not hers.

"Huh. Sorry."

She smiled softly. "It's okay. Long day for both of us, I guess."

"Yeah."

"How's Alex?"

The question – so ordinary, yet at the same time spoken with more than a hint of trepidation – threw him. For a second, he simply didn't want to answer.

"It's okay to be angry, you know." Perversely, Sienna's concern just made him more annoyed. Why couldn't she leave him be? Leave it be?

"Like you are with Davenport?" _Not smart, not smart, _the thinking part of his brain chided him, but the drunken, angry part watched eagerly to see her response.

Sienna's face suddenly went blank, her feelings hidden behind a professional mask of calm self-control as she tried to work out the best answer. Suddenly he was angry with that, wanting to provoke her into showing some feelings, prove to him he wasn't the only one losing control.

"Honestly? Yes, in some ways, I'm still very angry with Drew, pretty much every time I look at my scars. But you know, Bobby, he's not really a bad guy, any more than you or I, he just works in a field where he has to make decisions where sometimes there are no good options. I'm not happy about him doing what he did to me, but I understand why he did it."

Her reasonableness enraged him, and he could barely hear the near-silent voice murmuring that she had had months to come to terms with what Davenport had done to her, and he had had mere days to come to terms with Eames' betrayal (no_ not betrayal, she was just reacting to the situation and then she re-thought her reaction, _yes _betrayal, she wanted to be rid of me and she never said anything about it, never, not once in five years_…)

"That's an old one." He faced her from across the room, looking down at her on the couch. " 'He's not a bad guy, he just does bad things'. Do you know how often I've heard that before?"

"Quite a lot of times, I imagine," Sienna replied calmly. "That doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"You're making excuses for him. You just don't want to admit that _you_ were wrong, that you misjudged him."

Sienna looked angry for the first time. "You know, Bobby, maybe someone who once thought he'd hounded someone to suicide and manipulated a mentally unstable woman into going into a situation where she ended up killing her father, to pick just two examples, maybe that guy shouldn't be throwing stones, because, believe me, that glass house of yours has got _really_ thin windows. I get that you're mad about Alex, and I don't blame you – I'm on your side, here – but stop taking it out on me."

He barely heard the latter part of her words, stung by the unfair accuracy of her criticism. He remembered this from his parents' fights, when he was younger, _you confess everything to them, you think they love you, then later on they know just where to stick the dagger to make sure it hurts_. How dared Sienna use his confession that he was worried about his motives, about some of the things he'd done, to win an argument?

_Because you started it. You criticised her friend and her judgement; did you expect her to sit there and take it?_

He ignored the voice of reason. Tipping his head on one side, he remarked "You're very keen to defend him," in his most insinuating voice, the one that implied he could read all the suspect's secrets, he knew everything already, he was just drawing out the interrogation for his and Eames' amusement and it would only be over when they talked, so why didn't they just talk already and end the agony…?

Sienna sprang up from the couch, really angry now. "Don't you dare pull that Detective Goren crap with me! Don't you dare, Bobby. I am not one of your suspects. You don't mess with my head." Suddenly, a look of dawning realisation, followed by sarcastic amusement, crossed her face.

"Have you been checking up on me, Bobby? Seeing who I've been calling? Is that what this is about?"

"Has that been preying on your mind? That you were calling him and not telling me?"

"I was calling Drew and not telling you because I knew you'd react exactly like this." Her face became passionate. "Damnit, Bobby, he almost died! He risked everything he had to do his job properly, like you or I would. I'm not going to be ashamed of calling someone who used to be one of my closest friends to find out if he's healing properly."

"Maybe you have other things to be ashamed about."

_Oh God_, the smart part of his brain muttered despairingly, taking in the frozen look on Sienna's face. It continued mournfully as the frozen horror was rapidly replaced with a look of absolute fury, _You should never have said that, and if you did, _not_ like that_.

In a low, furious, monotone, Sienna snarled: "I have _nothing_ to be ashamed about, Bobby. If I'd screwed half of London, it would still be none of your business. Nothing to do with you whatsoever. Oh, and by the way, you might like to tell that ex-girlfriend of yours that we're back together. Much as I like your eight-inch cock, I'd rather not hear messages singing its praises in another woman's voice when I visit here."

"You deleted my messages?" A totally nonsensical reply, as his brain struggled desperately to process what Sienna had just tacitly admitted.

"I thought it was the most tactful thing to do. If I'd known you were going to be such an asshole about this, I'd have left it for you to deal with."

"How could you?"

"How could I what? Delete your messages? Oh you mean, how could I sleep with Drew? The usual way, since you ask."

He took refuge in petty meanness. "Given his preferences, I'm surprised he could even get it up."

Sienna's face became mean, almost spiteful, and he suddenly hated himself for provoking her into looking that way. "Three times in one night, as it happens, and frankly that's more that you're capable of right at this moment in time."

They glowered at each other, furiously. The last time he'd been this angry with a woman, it had been Nicole Wallace's icy features thrust into his face in the interrogation room.

_Sienna is the love of your life, why are you doing this?_

The voice of reason spoke too late, as Sienna stormed out of the room, pausing only to grab her shoes and overnight bag, and growled at him: "That's it. I am leaving, and I am going to my apartment, and you are not going to call me. You are not going to call me for a whole day, Bobby, because that's how long it's going to take me to calm down. And you are only going to call me where you're prepared to talk about this like an adult human being, not a little boy angry that someone else played with his favourite toy."

He started to say something in reply, but was cut off by the bang of the door closing behind her.


	21. The Morning After

Chapter 22: The Morning After.

**Author's Note**: Thanks to everyone who leaves reviews, it's really, really appreciated. And, as ever, giant thank-yous to **blucougar**, for awesome beta-reading and inspiration.

_Oh, fuck_.

He woke up, rolled over, and wished he hadn't. His head hurt more than should reasonably be possible for it to hurt without him actually passing out, and his stomach felt like he had gone beyond feeling nauseous and hungry, and into completely hollow.

On the plus side, at least he didn't feel sick.

Then he saw the empty place where Sienna should have been sleeping, and the memories of the night before flooded back.

_Oh, FUCK_.

He tried not to think about it, but his brain was in that oddly clear-headed state that only happened after drinking far too much and going to sleep without eating. If only he'd been able to achieve it without making himself feel like death warmed over; his skull ached and the skin around his eyes was uncomfortably tight. He couldn't even remember how many whiskies he'd drunk after Sienna had left last night.

She should have been there. Her warm, soft body should have been next to him, her beautiful face smiling seductively, inviting him to be pleasured and loved at the start of a weekend that was supposed to be all about the two of them. He should have been able to roll over and wrap her in his arms, nuzzling her neck and stroking all the soft, sensitive places of her amazing body that only he knew about…

_Tomorrow I'm all yours, Bobby, however you want, as long as you want…_

Instead, Sienna had stormed out and he was alone, tormented by an entirely unwelcome vision of Davenport's hands on her body, blond, British, scrawny frame atop _his_ Sienna. Or had it been the other way round? he thought miserably. He of all people knew Sienna's fondness for taking the lead in the bedroom when she was feeling in the mood; had it been she, not Davenport, who had initiated things? He could only too easily picture the man taking advantage of a sure thing; Davenport struck him as the type who would hardly turn down sex on a plate…

_This is a completely useless line of thought_, he realised. _And besides, if you don't pee soon, you're going to be very sorry_.

Why the hell couldn't he have been thinking this clearly the night before? he wondered miserably, as he forced himself out of bed and dragged himself down to the bathroom. As he washed his hands, he involuntarily looked at himself in the mirror. A naked, unshaven, grey-haired, bleary-eyed wreck looked back.

He sighed wearily, and with some self-disgust, then forced himself to stick his head under the tap, and gulp down some water. He thought about showering, but decided his best bet was to drink a huge glass of water, try eating a single slice of toast, then go back to bed for an hour to let things settle down. He didn't even want to consider shaving until much, much later.

As he was sitting staring blankly into the distance in the kitchen, waiting for the toast to be ready, the telephone rang insistently. His first instinct was to ignore it, then it occurred to him that it might be Sienna. He thought again about ignoring it, realised that would be childish, then staggered across and picked up the phone.

"Hey, Bobby, how are you?"

_Oh shit_. The female voice on the end of the phone was not Sienna's, but Debra's, and there was a certain note of pissed-ness beneath the apparently friendly words.

"Uh… fine." _Liar_.

"Yeah, really? You sound like death warmed over."

Definitely pissed.

"I had kind of a rough night last night."

"Sounds like! Anyway, hey, I'm coming into town in a few weeks time on business. Was thinking we could meet up and you can apologise properly for not returning any of my goddamn calls."

"Uh… Debra… about that…"

"Oh shit." Debra's voice suddenly went gaspy. "Oh geez, Bobby, I didn't think… Is it your mom? Is she sick? Is that why you haven't been calling?"

The concern in her voice only made things worse.

"Because I totally understand, if that's what's…"

"Uh, no, Debra, it's not." He took a deep breath and tried to compose a coherent sentence. "I… started seeing someone."

"Oh."

The flatness of her voice said it all. Nevertheless, he ploughed on anyway. "I should have told you… I'm sorry…"

"Hey, it's no bother. You were getting your needs met, right?"

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was brittle and forced. "It's okay, Bobby. Really. That's all this has ever been about, right? Just a little fun, nice convenient fucking for both of us."

"Well…"

"It's okay. Best of luck for the future, and I hope she fucks you like I used to."

He considered briefly telling Debra, who he'd known for some years, that, one, it wasn't his fault he hadn't returned her calls and that Sienna had deleted the message from her, and two, that it was entirely possible that Sienna and he would not in fact be fucking for some time, if ever. He decided against it, and settled for platitudes. "Listen, I'm really sorry this worked out like this… I hope things go well for you in the future."

"Yeah, whatever. Have a good life, Bobby." She rang off.

He stared into the distance for some time trying to marshall his thoughts, then wondered if he should call Sienna. He remembered only too clearly what she'd said, "Don't call me for a day, because that's how long it'll take me to calm down…"

But then again, sometimes you had to make the effort, he thought. Just because Sienna had said that in the heat of the moment, it didn't mean she might not want him to call now…

Before he realised what he was doing, he picked up the phone, and dialled her number. The call went straight to voicemail: "Hello, this is Sienna Tovitz. Please contact me on my other cellphone if this is a business-related call. If it isn't, please leave a message and I'll get back to you, unless your name is Bobby, in which case-" her voice suddenly hitched and went husky "-please just don't call for a while." The message ended and the tone beeped. He decided against leaving a message and ended the call.

He stared into the distance for some time, then went back into the kitchen, buttered and ate the now-cold slice of toast, and went back to bed in the faint hope that everything would be better after an hour's rest.

One hour later, his head still hurt, but the light-headedness and hollow feeling had gone, and he was able to get up, shower, and make an attempt at shaving. He pulled on an old T-shirt and some pants, then made himself some more toast and some coffee, and sat in the kitchen, staring at the wall and thinking about the previous night before.

_It's not that complicated. You got drunk, got horny, and acted like an ass when your girlfriend said she didn't want to have sex with you. _

He tried hard to think of mitigating circumstances, but was forced to conclude that that accurately described what had happened. Then again, he thought, thinking about the background situations, it had been an hell of a week. The revelation about Eames, his fears and suspicions about Sienna and Davenport, his own recent thoughts about his profession and the way he had to treat people sometimes, his ongoing worry that Sienna would decide she'd made a mistake and leave him…

If he was thinking about someone else, he thought, he would understand why that man had reached the end of his tether, had too much to drink, and snapped. Unfortunately, he'd done it in the worst possible way and at the worst possible time, and Sienna was obviously really angry with him. Worse still, she was severely upset.

She was hardly blameless herself, he thought. She had deleted his messages from Debra, and hidden the fact that she'd been speaking to Davenport from him.

He surprised himself by thinking that he could understand that latter part. With the odd clear-headedness of his hangover still in place, he realised remorsefully that he had hardly given the impression to Sienna that she could tell him anything. Instead, he'd given the impression that he never wanted to see or hear about Davenport again.

_An a__ccurate impression, _he reproached himself. _Look how you acted last night… but you can't get away from it. Davenport was Sienna's friend, and regardless of what you think, she has a right to speak to him if she wants. _

He'd done it all wrong, he thought. He should have acted like he couldn't have cared less whether Sienna stayed in touch with Davenport, been the bigger man. Sienna would have been impressed by that, would have admired his willingness to be tolerant of her friendship with someone he disliked. Women liked that sort of self-confidence… but instead, he'd acted like the worst kind of jealous idiot.

_I have a right to,_ he thought angrily. _Look what he did to her!_

And then he realised that he knew only too well what Sienna would say in reply to that; that Davenport had done it to _her_, not to Goren, and it was her right to decide whether or not to forgive. His anger on her behalf wasn't helping.

_Damn, damn, damn, why couldn't I have thought of all this before_

He rubbed his face with his hands and wallowed in self-pity for a while, but before his thoughts could chase themselves any further, the telephone rang yet again. He snatched it up and muttered nervously, "Uh, hello?"

A cheerful male voice replied: "Hey, buddy, it's me! Long time no see!"

"Oh, hey, Lewis."

"Man, sounds like you had a rough night."

"Uh… yeah."

"Shit, I'm not interrupting something, am I? Don't want your girlfriend mad at me."

"Uh… no chance of that."

"Oh. You and she…?"

"We… had a big fight last night."

Lewis's voice went quiet. "Oh. Real sorry to hear that."

"It's great to hear from you. Uh, is there a reason why…?"

"Well…" Lewis hesitated. "I was kinda wondering if you wanted to come over. I've got a Porsche Carrera in the garage at the moment – 1965, looks like new, I bought it online, it just needed some work to get it up and running and I've already got a buyer. I've nearly finished, but I could use a hand with some of the final work… I was thinking maybe you'd like to come over today, give me some help, and we could take it for a test drive? But if you're busy, I guess it can wait…"

"No… hold on." He thought briefly about it, and realised that he had two choices: a) mope round his apartment all day and wait for Sienna to call, or b) go fix cars with Lewis. He decided that fixing cars with his friend actually held a certain appeal. He might as well do something with the day, and Sienna could call his cellphone as easily if he was at Lewis's place as she could if he were at home.

He decided. "Yeah, I'll come over. Just give me a little time to drink some coffee."

Lewis chuckled. "Man, sounds like you had a hell of a night."

"Yeah. See you in an hour."

"Looks like we're done here!"

"Huh?" He crawled out from under the car where he'd been checking all the joints on the exhaust and looked up at Lewis.

"I said, I think we're done." Lewis grinned. "Everything okay under there?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Looks good, but there's only one way to really find out…"

Lewis nodded eagerly, practically bouncing up and down on the spot. "Hell yeah! Give me a hand to get it off the blocks, and we'll take her out."

"Sure, just gimme a minute." He stood up, and strolled off in the direction of the bathroom. His hangover was a lot better after what had seemed like a gallon of coffee, plus some eggs, bacon and hash browns at the local greasy spoon where he and Lewis had called in when they decided to take a break from fixing the car earlier in the day.

Not just that, he thought. It had been good to spend time with a friend. Lewis, mercifully, hadn't asked too much about he and Sienna, though they'd caught up a little throughout the day. Lewis's garage was doing well, and he was still with the girlfriend Goren had seen him with earlier in the year. Apparently, she was a classic car enthusiast too, and Goren had wondered more than once if Lewis intended the Porsche for her, as a love-token.

Altogether, he reflected, as he wandered back into the garage, he was feeling a lot better. Tomorrow, he would go around to Sienna's house with flowers, and perhaps some other gift – what would she like? he wondered. Not lingerie; that implied he was hoping to get laid. Chocolates, maybe, or was that too obvious? How about a book she liked? That might strike the right note…

Nearby, something beeped softly. He wondered briefly what it was, then realised it was the noise his cellphone made when he'd missed a call. He was half-tempted to ignore it, but habit made him check.

What he saw made him swear softly, and sit down on the bench in shock.

Sienna had called him six times, leaving three messages.

_Oh shit_.


	22. The Fear is Here

"All I wanted was the chance to say

I would like to see you in the morning

Rolling over to have you there

Would make it easy for a little bit longer.

But here, closer every year, so near,

The fear is coming clear,

My dear, the fear is here."

Travis, "The Fear".

He bit back the thought that if Sienna had left messages saying she was angry with him for not calling, he was going to be very pissed… then called the number to listen to them.

The first one was short, almost businesslike, but his trained ears could easily detect the strain under Sienna's apparent calm. "Bobby, it's me, Sienna. Listen, I know last night went horribly wrong, but we really do need to talk, right now. It's urgent. Please call me."

The next message, left an hour after the first, was longer: "Bobby, I understand if you're mad. I really do. But this is more important." She paused and took a breath, and his heart suddenly started to beat faster. "Bobby, they're sending us back to London. You, me and Alex. We were supposed to go together, but they need me back there more quickly than the two of you, so I'm flying out today. Please call me."

_She's going back_. The thought struck him hard. Sienna was going back to London, away from him… then he dismissed it impatiently. _Sienna_ wasn't going back, all three of them were… why? He held his breath as he listened to the final message.

Sienna's voice was high and tight. "Bobby…" She paused and began again. "Bobby, please. I know you're angry, and I probably deserve that… but please, please, come and say goodbye. Come see me before I have to go back. My flight leaves at six. Please find me at the airport. Please, Bobby..." She broke off, and the message ended.

"Hey, man, what is it?"

"Uhh…" He looked up at Lewis, who was staring at him with some concern.

"It's Sienna..." He wondered if he should tell Lewis anything, but couldn't instantly think of a convincing lie, and settled for a fake version of the truth. "Uhh… she has to go back to London… for work."

"Oh man, again?" Lewis looked weary. "When's she leaving?"

"Uhh…" He looked at his watch, and cursed softly. "In three hours."

"The _hell_?" Lewis jumped up from the bench he'd been leaning on. "She's leaving in _three hours_, and you're sitting here?"

"Well…"

"Buddy!" Lewis rolled his eyes. "Get off your ass and into the damn Porsche, 'cause we are leaving, _now_!"

"What?"

Lewis rolled his eyes again. "Okay. Two years ago, we're in the bar, and you start saying, I wish I'd gone with her to the damn airport, she left thinking I didn't give a fuck…" (He squirmed, suddenly getting a flashback and realising that he must have been even more drunk than he'd thought) "…One year ago, we're in the bar, and you start saying, it's been a year, I wish I'd gone with her to the damn airport, I'll never see her again. This year, she comes back, and you're practically prancin' through the buttercups with happiness! Get in the damn car and go meet her already, 'cause I am not sitting through another year of 'I wish I'd gone to the damn airport!'" Lewis suddenly ran out of breath, looked surprised at himself, and shut up.

"You're right."

"I am? Okay, yeah! Get in the Porsche, gimme a minute to lock everything up, and we are outta here. Oh, and I'm driving."

"You are?"

"Hell yes. Don't take it personally. 'Sides, that way I can pull right up to the door, and you can run out, like Starsky and Hutch." Lewis grinned. "I always wanted to do that."

_John F. Kennedy Airport._

_Half past four._

I paced up and down, realised I was pacing, and stopped. There was no-one to see, but I had no intention of letting my inner feelings show. All I wanted the nervy eyes of the passengers awaited the delayed BA12893 flight from New York to London was a calm, professional, fearless red-headed woman in a tailored black suit.

_For all__ you know, you might already be being watched by very _unfriendly_ eyes… _

I dismissed that as the voice of paranoia. I had good reasons to be afraid, but I had to keep them in perspective if we were all going to get out of this alive. Overestimating my enemy wasn't going to help.

I resisted the urge to sink down into an uncomfortable airport chair and start crying from stress. I was not ashamed of my feelings… but right now I couldn't afford the luxury of letting myself wallow in them.

I'd feared this day would come. In some ways, it was almost a relief when I'd received the call in the early hours of the morning. Officially, of course, it was because we were all needed as soon as possible to help with the ongoing enquiry into the assassination plot at the City of London stadium earlier in the year, and Interpol wanted me to leave early.

Unofficially… _don't think about it, Sienna_.

In other ways, it was the most god-awful timing. Bobby and I had had a major row at the very time I was going to need all my strength and resources. Instead of being focussed and secure, all I could feel was a nerve-sapping roil of fear, anxiety, and wrenching guilt.

The truth was, I wanted Bobby, right now this minute… and for all I knew he had decided to end our relationship and never speak to me again. No matter how hard I tried to think positive, the knowledge that I'd hit him with the fact that I'd slept with someone he loathed and despised only the night before was shredding my nerves. It was entirely possible that Bobby might decide that our relationship was too traumatic, that he'd had enough turmoil in his life, and that he was going to cut me loose.

I didn't want to believe that. I didn't want to believe that my Bobby would do that… but I had to admit that there was a possibility he might, that my angry words had caused the one thing I most feared.

Correction: one of the two things I most feared, and the first one had already happened.

I looked up at the clock. I had checked in, and should really have gone through security ten minutes ago – I couldn't risk missing this flight – but I wanted to see him so badly. I contemplated calling him again, then forced myself to put the cellphone back in my inside jacket pocket. I wanted Bobby desperately, but if my three messages and numerous calls hadn't reached him by now, they weren't going to.

I wanted Bobby for two reasons, both equally important. Firstly, I wanted him to hold me. I wanted Bobby to hug me and hold me and reassure me that I was loved, that the love of my life still loved me, that I wasn't a complete screw-up.

That didn't mean I wasn't still somewhat pissed about what had happened last night. And, indeed, embarrassed. I really hadn't covered myself with glory there… I should just have told Bobby about Debra's call as soon as it happened, not waited for "the right moment". I'd done the classic thing of feeling awkward and putting it off, then feeling more awkward because I'd put it off… and so on.

_And being as possessive of Bobby as he was about you?_

Ouch. That thought… was more painful because it was somewhat true. I hadn't slept much last night, and when I had, I'd been awoken by the call telling me I was needed in London ahead of schedule and that Bobby and Alex would follow me in a day's time. Nevertheless, in between cursing and being afraid, I'd found a few seconds to feel rather guilty on the behalf on the anonymous Debra. I'd never met the woman, but I'd been pretty pissed at her for moving in on _my _territory, which was stupid since it was hardly her fault Bobby hadn't told her we were together again.

I had wondered a few times whether that meant something, whether Bobby was keeping his options open… but no. I couldn't square that level of deceit with my Bobby, the man who had watched his father cheat on his mother and privately vowed never to do the same himself. More likely, he'd just absentmindedly forgotten to call her. I didn't get the impression that their's had been more than a casual relationship, but, nevertheless, I hadn't exactly treated her well by not telling Bobby she'd called. However, there was nothing I could do about that now. Bobby would just have to handle it himself…

I sighed heavily, and thought, _assuming he's still interested in continuing to be with you_…

I still felt a certain amount of fury about that. Really, what the hell business was it of Bobby's who I called? I didn't go round telling him which of his friends he should stay in contact with! Particularly not if one of them had been shot, nearly killed, and spent an anxious few months fearing he would be permanently crippled.

_None__ of Bobby's friends ever deceived him and got _him_ shot_.

I couldn't deny the truth of that, and maybe I should have talked it over with Bobby, but those conversations always took the same form. Me: Drew's not such a bad guy. Bobby: He deceived you and got you shot. Me: He's sorry for it. Bobby: How can you stay friends with someone like that? Someone who lives his entire life manipulating everyone around him? Me: You didn't really know him. Bobby: I know that I wouldn't want to.

And so on. Bobby simply refused to either hear or listen to any suggestion whatsoever that Drew had any good points at all.

Which was understandable, I supposed. Bobby had only ever encountered Drew in a professional setting, where even I would admit that he could be one of the most provoking human beings I'd ever encountered. Whereas Bobby tended to limit that side of his personality to suspects, Drew saw no reason not to use it on everyone else around him. In a twisted way, it made sense. In Drew's line of work, in a world where trusting the wrong person could have swift and fatal consequences, being able to manipulate the emotions of people around you could be a vital tool for survival.

Bobby had never seen the other side of Drew, the man who had visited my bedside nearly every day whilst I'd been recovering from being shot… I knew, I knew, Bobby would say that that was out of guilt. Except that for someone in Drew's position, someone who was supposed to put the need to get results above everything else, to feel guilt over something like that was extremely unusual.

Perhaps I was being naively optimistic, but I really did believe that Drew had changed during the two years I'd known him, from the entirely ruthless agent who would happily have shot Daniel Smith during that operation in Connecticut and lied to me to be able to use me as bait, to someone who had learned to value his friends, even to fall in love.

I was not so stupid as to think that Drew had changed completely. Then again, I no longer needed the people in my life to be perfect, and I owed Drew a lot. To a large extent, the person I was now was the result of Drew – and Tanya's – mentoring.

Perhaps I should simply have let my friendship with Drew go. Perhaps I should have accepted that that was the price of my relationship with Bobby… but no. That would never have worked. I'd have thrown it at Bobby's head in the first serious row we had… and it would have been a stupid idea. I loved Bobby so much, but I was not willing to compromise on doing what I believed was the right thing, not even for him.

I was, however, still kicking myself for opening my big mouth yesterday. Letting Bobby know I'd slept with Drew without giving him the circumstances in which it happened… bad, bad idea. Knowing Bobby, he'd now be constructing all sorts of scenarios about that, none of them good.

Perhaps I was misjudging Bobby. Perhaps he'd remember that Drew had been with Michael for months before he and Alex arrived in London. Perhaps he'd realise that that meant that anything that might have happened between Drew and I was _long_ since history. I hoped so.

Nevertheless… I felt a deep pulse of fear, as the reality of the situation hit me again.

I looked at my watch.

_Give it another five minutes_, I thought desperately.

The second reason I wanted Bobby was because I was unsure I could cope with what was coming, and I desperately hoped I hadn't lost him for good with what had happened last night.

I wasn't trying to be modest, or underestimate my own abilities, when I said that. I was good at my job, but I was not an agent, or a detective, not someone used to working in the field…

Suddenly, I remembered a conversation I'd had with Drew, just over a year ago. We'd been in a new bar; finding new places and trying them out was an interest both Drew and I shared. This one was in an old converted warehouse near a Tube station in Clapham. It was famous for two things; cocktails, and an enormous roof garden with great views of the surrounding area. We were enthusiastically trying out both, whilst at the same time having an animated discussion about martial arts…

"Drew, I'm sorry, but I'm not at your level, or Tanya's level, and I'm not risking getting my arm broken or my joints dislocated."

"You know, it's not _that_ dangerous… we haven't had someone get seriously injured since last year, and that was an accident."

"Maybe, but the whole point of that level of training is that there _is_ that risk. I just got finished with the rehab for my leg, and I've got a lot to do at work, which I can't do if I get hurt. I'll keep doing the ordinary training, but there's no way I'm coming to the advanced class."

Drew suddenly grinned, his _I've just been playing with you_ grin, and finished his drink. "I know."

I tipped my head on one side. "Really? You're not going to try to persuade me?"

"Nope." Drew slurped the dregs of his drink, and crunched an ice cube. "You don't need that level of training, and you know it, because you, SiSi, are natural _chunin_." He leaned forward, his face assuming the happy expression it usually did when he was about to expound on an argument.

I had a reasonable smattering of dojo Japanese by now, having known Tanya for some time. I frowned, trying to work it out… "Middle… middle something?"

"Middle man, or, in your case, middle woman." Drew gestured with his glass. "Traditionally, the ninja clans operated a three-tier command structure. First, you had the guys at the top, the _jonin._ They were the heads of the clan, they made the strategic decisions… who they should work for, which side they should back in a conflict, long-term planning, and so on."

"The Godfathers."

"Exactly; most criminal gangs use this structure too, as you'll know. At the bottom, you had _genin_, and they were the people everyone thinks of when they think of ninja. They were the foot soldiers."

"Like you?"

Drew grinned, and nodded. "Which makes you _chunin_, SiSi. The _chunin _were the men in the middle, who liaised between the _jonin_ and _genin_. The _jonin_ would decide what needed to be done, the _chunin_ would work out what resources they had available and who should do it, then hand out the orders."

"And your point is…?"

"That you don't need to be able to fight like Tanya or I. You have your own gifts, SiSi, and they are _good_. You can manage people and resources, and that is not a gift I've ever particularly bothered to master. A good _chunin_ is essential if the whole organisation is going to work properly. Someone needs to make sure that the field guys have what they need, whilst at the same time getting the results delivered to the guys at the top. The system works best when everyone does what they're good at."

I smiled. "Flattery won't make me forget that it's still your round when we want the next set of drinks."

Drew snorted. "It's not flattery, SiSi. I would trust _you_ if you were above me… as it were." He grinned.

"You can find the innuendo in everything, can't you?"

He smiled with false modesty. "It's another little gift I have."

"So, when do you plan to move on up?" I asked.

Drew frowned slightly. "Hmm?"

"Well, you surely aren't planning on being the guy who takes the orders for the rest of your life? You've said yourself that field agents tend to have a limited career once they got older... when do you plan on being the guy who makes the decisions?"

Drew frowned again, more deeply, then looked up. Those grey eyes made contact with mine, and I think there was some genuine confusion in there, although with Drew it was always a bit hard to tell.

"Honestly, SiSi?" He smiled a little ruefully. "I've never thought about it."

"I find that hard to believe."

His mouth quirked. "I honestly never figured I'd make it this far. Anyway, my round, same again?" He disappeared before I had chance to reply…

Back in the present, I smiled wryly, then the smile disappeared from my face as reality hit hard and fast. The fact was, I agreed entirely with Drew that I was by nature a _chunin-_type, and thus, by extension, not a _genin_. Unfortunately, this situation was going to call for very fast thinking by someone with a talent for working in the field, and vast realms of experience.

The fact was, I needed Bobby. I wanted my love, my Bobby, Detective Goren, beside me, so that we could both get through this. At a fundamental level, I wanted Bobby to protect me, but it was more than that.

I believed I knew a way to get all of us out of this alive, but I needed Bobby's help, his advice, his skills and experience, and I desperately feared I'd lost him for good.

I closed my eyes briefly, and repeated to myself that I firmly believed that my love, my Bobby, wouldn't be so petty as to leave me like this just because we'd had an argument. Surely, he'd hear my message and realise I needed him, that this was a situation that needed us to overcome our fears and arguments and work as one.

Nevertheless, he still hadn't returned any of my calls…

I forced myself to glance at my watch, and it confirmed what I already knew. I could wait no longer to go through the security checks if I wanted to be sure of catching my flight, Bobby or no Bobby.

I looked at the people around me, and hoped that I was doing a good job of concealing my feelings. I thought that I was, since their faces didn't reveal any concern out of the ordinary.

This was it, and he wasn't here.

Time to go. Bobby or no Bobby. I collected my thoughts, my briefcase, and my passport and tickets, and headed towards the gate with a heavy heart.

"Wa-HOOO!" Lewis yelled excitedly. "Don't worry, pal, we're gonna be there in no time! We get stopped, you can get me out of any tickets, right?"

He didn't bother to wait for an answer, but changed to the Porsche's highest gear, and floored the gas. The car roared down the expressway, and Bobby involuntarily braced his feet against the floor, gripping the map tightly, but Lewis was a superb driver, weaving through traffic at a pace that would have done a ambulance driver proud.

Ahead of them loomed the gigantic buildings of John F. Kennedy Airport, and he checked his watch once more, despairing. They had encountered a huge amount of traffic earlier; a pile-up on one of the other expressways had caused traffic to spill over across half the major roads in the city, and only now were they beginning to pull clear of it. He almost wondered if he should tell Lewis to stop, Sienna's flight would surely have left by now…

_No_. The voice inside him was calm, but definite, and he knew in his gut that it was right.

_No. This time, I'm doing it right. This time, I try everything to reach her, because I'm not giving up_.

Suddenly, they were almost there, Lewis dodging the cars in front of them, dangerously swerving around an airport bus, pulling up with a screech of brakes, and they were there, there ahead of his lay the terminal entrance, and he sprinted from the car, barely remembering to yell "Thanks!" over his shoulder. Where would Sienna's flight depart from? He frantically gazed around, he should remember this, he'd been here often enough… He forced himself to calm down, think rationally, and spotted the sign that indicated the gates for international departures to Europe.

He ran again, long legs pumping, drawing some attention, but not too much, a running man in an airport being no strange sight. He dodged other passengers, shops, stalls, nearly tripping over small children and suitcases as he rounded the corner, and there, there at the end of a long hall was the gate, with no sign of his Sienna, and he realised with a stab of despair that she must have already gone through.

_That's it_.

_No, it __isn't._

The voice of determination spoke again, and he ran once more, pounding towards the gate, eyes scanning frantically for a flash of red hair, and _there_. There it was. Sienna's shapely form emerged from behind the bulky frame of the security staff checking passports, heading in the direction of the queues for the security checks…

He barely paused to think, but instead gathered his strength, and roared "SIENNA!"

Half the airport jumped, and turned to look curiously, but he paid them no heed, focussing only on one person. One person who had stopped walking, who was even now turning, running towards him… He ran, heart pounding, and stopped just before the gate, where the security staff were regarded them both with some concern, and the reality of the situation hit him.

"It's okay, I'm NYPD," he assured them.

"Do you have ID?"

"Uh…"

"I do." Sienna produced her Interpol identity card and waved it with cool assurance, but he, who knew her, could see the desperate joy in her face. "It's okay, he is with the NYPD. We need to speak for a few minutes."

"I'm sorry; I can't let you back through now that your documents have been checked." The man's face was polite, but his tone utterly firm. They could not speak in private…

He didn't care. "Sienna, I'm sorry."

"Bobby, I'm sorry."

They spoke at the same time, and stared at each other, frantic with the urge to reassure, to convince.

"I should never have said that…"

"I should never have done that…"

They stared again, then Sienna took charge of the conversation. "Bobby, I'm so, so sorry, but I have to go. I can't miss this flight… My God, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Sienna… I, uh… I don't know what to say…"

"Do you want us to be together? I know, I know, we only argued last night… but if we could make up, if we could get past that… Bobby, do you still want me?"

"Yes. Oh Sienna… yes, yes, I _do_ want to… to… to keep trying." And he did, he realised, with a fierceness that surprised him.

He had not forgotten what had happened the night before, nor his feelings of anger with Sienna for what she had said, but he knew that, for as long as there was a chance, even a small one, that he and she could make it work, he would do his utmost to see that become reality. This time, he was not giving up…

"Bobby, do you trust me?" Sienna asked urgently.

"What?" He was so caught up in his feelings, the meaning of her words didn't immediately register, and he only understood them as she spoke again.

"Bobby, do you trust me?"

"Yes."

Suddenly, Sienna lunged forward, and he threw himself forward to join her, and they hugged fiercely, hungrily, for long minutes, heedless of the angry stares of the gate guard. As Sienna's arms held him, she murmured fast, urgent words, in his ear, and her words shocked him so much, he pulled back as though she'd touched him with a live wire.

"I mean it, Bobby, and I'm not asking lightly, and I wouldn't ask if I saw any other way. Would you do that for me?"

Her eyes were naked, pleading, and he almost wanted to refuse, afraid of what he saw there…

"Do you trust me? Then that trust needs to start now. Please, Bobby, for all our sakes."

"If you ask me to do it… I'll do it for _you_."

"That's all I can ask, Bobby. Remember…" She smiled suddenly, a smile of breathtaking sweetness and love that soothed him. "It's _you_ I came back to, and you who I love. No-one else comes close." She turned, her face anguished, but curiously also controlled. "I have to go, Bobby. Follow me and find me as soon as you can."

"I will. Both of us will…"

"I know." She smiled again, this time bravely. "See you in London."

And then she was gone, sucked away into the depths of the airport, going on her own to face what awaited them all.


End file.
